H is for Hawk by Helen Macdonald
My goodness. It’s so rare to find a memoir that’s so insightful, with such emotional narrative, that avoids the sentimental or the self-absorbed. A book on a hobby or some nature subject that’s so personal. (Sort of like McPhee, but more personal, more beautiful). A book that weaves together a literal narrative of arc and momentum with an emotional narrative that the writer must have realized only as the events drew to a close, and a historical narrative. I suppose she is a falconer, a poet, and a historian, so blending the three is the book she had to write. But who would’ve imagined the result would be so magical?