The wretched irony of this book is one of the most heartbreaking concepts of it. Sibohan Dowd, a woman so talented, so creative, with an incredible idea, a perfect vision, something so true... Unable to finish it. 
 Cancer. It took away her chance to finish the book, took away her life from her family and her friends. 
 But it was also the thing that made this book famous, the thing that gave this book its story. 
 How horrible I feel to think it, how completely selfish it makes me, I have to admit that without cancer, she wouldn't have been able to so fully and beautifully create this book, this unexplainable feeling within it, this story that will last in all of us who read it. 
 Patrick Ness, one of my most worshipped authors, took up the unfinished project of A Monster Calls, writing something with the sole purpose of hoping he could create something that Sibohan would have approved of. 
 Hope. 
 Hope is something Patrick Ness understands. His trilogy, Chaos Walking, was created from a foundation of hope, the hope that what's at the end of the road is better than what you're running from, the hope at the very end of the last book, that made you the only one to decide what you hoped the ending really was, what made you write the last page yourself. 
 It's all reflected here. And reading this book without it would be a curse upon yourself. Hope is all Conor has. 
 Ness and Dowd. 
 His talent, his vision, his hope, mixed with her idea, her unimaginable experiences. That is what this book is. 
 Bless them both. And may Sibohan Dowd rest in peace. 
 Edit: June 2012 
 Ironic that, months after reading this book, I am diagnosed with cancer. 
 Its a benign tumor, but since it is located in a part of my brain that could be harmed by even the most delicate surgical methods, I'll be going through proton therapy soon. The book means much more to me now, needless to say. I actually had my mother reading it on the day we went in to get the MRI that would give us the bad news. 
 She finished it right in front of me just before they called us in to tell us that there was a tumor in the direct center of my brain, putting so much pressure on it that my brain no longer pulsed. 
 Oddly enough, I didn't cry that day. Maybe because I read this book, maybe because I knew that it wouldn't be as bad as many others with cancer much worse than this. 
 Either way, this book holds a special place in my heart now.