That can't be named

The thing I love most with books and good stories is the way they turn you from the inside out, how they manage to uproot you from your normal world and make you see things in another light, perhaps in a clearer state. I love books that create in me a chance to dissect my own existence in a way I never had before.

This book, Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, is one of those. I never felt so identified to a work of fiction since To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (which remains my all-time favorite). This book has this thing I can not name, really. All I know is that its depth and power have swept me over, devastated me in a most wonderful way. Suddenly, I don't like myself anymore.