Recently finished reading Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones--what a pleasant surprise! For a book that begins, "I was fourteen when I was murdered on December 6, 1973", it ended so sweetly and hopefully, yet without a hint of sappiness, that I felt briefly uplifted from our too-often tawdry society. For those of you who have not read this sleeper hit, the narrator is indeed dead, watching, from her heavenly view, the continued lives of her family and friends and recalling events from her brief life on earth. It's well-written, touching, and (most importantly) eminently readable and interesting. An excellent book to devour lying on the couch before an open window, while a summer breeze cools the house and a couple of cats sprawl lazily at your feet.