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Ten Stars Is Not Enough I laughed, cried, and sniffled my way through this book, which I began reading as I walked to the checkout counter and continued to read on the street, in the subway, at the grocery store, while I bathed my six-month-old son, as I cooked supper, as I read aloud to my son, as I watched television, and as I made love to my darling wife. The only time I paused was to cry, stick a post-it note next to a particularly poignant passage, to jot down a profound thought or two in a memo pad, and to reflect on the preternatural wisdom and brilliance of this book's youthful 28-year-old author. I think Jonathan Safran Foer is the epitome of the "old soul": clearly there's a dead 85-year-old rabbi or something inside his body, a sagacious, generous spirit that Young Jonathan Safran Foer is channeling when he writes. We watch as the heartbreaking Oskar Schell trundles through the stunned streets of a post September 11 New York, searching for the secret of his newly dead father's life--and his own. On the way, we meet a vibrant cast of characters, and some of the most creative writing you ever saw. The last book I read left my perceptions and ideas intact. Now, this book: it's changed my way of thinking about things, about the way books can be, and about the way life can be, particularly when death touches life, and books. You could say this book is the Book of Life. I think it might have been a better title, but the title is one of maybe three or perhaps eight mistakes, tops, that Jonathan Safran Foer makes in this book. Though you can forgive him, because of his youth and because of his excellent intentions in writing this generous, heartfelt, giving, yielding, warm, loving valentine to life, to love, to a great city, and to the Spirit of Being Alive. I loved it! I'm Alive!