I have once more closed the covers of The House on Mango Street, a work of such singular resonance that I have found myself returning to its pages three times now.
As one who knows the streets of Chicago and as a Mexican-American, I found the narrative to be profoundly relatable—it is as though I am seeing a reflection of my own youth within these vignettes (as far as growing up in a working class environment under a Mexican household). What is most remarkable, however, is how the book seems to grow alongside the reader. At each different stage of my life, I have unearthed some hidden truth or subtle detail that had previously escaped my notice; it is a well of wisdom that does not run dry.
It is a most solid and rewarding achievement, earning a firm eight parts out of ten. Truly, it is a story that reveals its deepest riches only to those willing to return to it again and again.