Zusatztext "A BOOK THAT SWELLS IN THE MIND AND HAUNTS THE THOUGHTS." --Los Angeles Times "Like most good things, [this book] is deceptively simple. Insights steal their way into the reader's mind the same way Anna steals into the reader's heart." --Chicago Sun-Times Informationen zum Autor Fynn is the pseudonym of Sydney George Hopkins, who wrote Mister God, This Is Anna, Anna's Book, and Anna and the Black Knight . Klappentext From the moment Anna and Fynn locked eyes, their times together were filled with delight and discovery. In her completely frank and honest way, Anna had an astonishing ability to ask--and answer--life's largest questions, and to feel the purpose of being. You see, Anna had a very special friendship with Mr. God. "Extraordinarily moving!" PUBLISHERS WEEKLY Leseprobe "The difference from a person and an angel is easy. Most of an angel is on the inside and most of a person is on the outside." These are the words of six-year-old Anna, sometimes called Mouse, Hum, or Joy. At five years old, Anna knew absolutely the purpose of being, knew the meaning of love, and was a personal friend and helper of Mister God. At six, Anna was a theologian, mathematician, philosopher, poet, and gardener. If you asked her a question you would always get an answer--in due course. On some occasions the answer would be delayed for weeks or months; but eventually, in her own good time, the answer would come: direct, simple, and much to the point. She never made eight years; she died by an accident. She died with a grin on her beautiful face. She died saying, "I bet Mister God lets me get into heaven for this." And I bet he did too. I knew Anna for just about three and a half years. Some people lay claim to fame by being the first person to sail around the world alone, or to stand on the moon, or by some other act of bravery. All the world has heard of such people. Not many people have heard of me, but I, too, have a claim to fame; for I knew Anna. To me this was the high peak of adventure. This was no casual knowing; it required total application. For I knew her on her own terms, the way she demanded to be known: from the inside first. "Most of an angel is in the inside," and this is the way I learned to know her--my first angel. Since then I have learned to know two other angels, but that's another story. My name is Fynn. Well that's not quite true; my real name doesn't matter all that much since my friends all called me Fynn and it stuck. If you know your Irish mythology you will know that Fynn was pretty big; me too. Standing about six feet two, weighing some 225 pounds, close to being a fanatic on physical culture, the son of an Irish mother and a Welsh father, with a passion for hot dogs and chocolate raisins--not together, I may add. My great delight was to roam about dock- land in the night-time, particularly if it was foggy. My life with Anna began on such a night. I was nineteen at the time, prowling the streets and alleys with my usual supply of hot dogs, the street lights with their foggy halos showing dark formless shapes moving out from the darkness of the fog and disappearing again. Down the street a little way, a baker's shop window softened and warmed the raw night with its gas lamps. Sitting on the grating under the window was a little girl. In those days children wandering the streets at night were no uncommon sight. I had seen such things before, but on this occasion it was different. How or why it was different has long since been forgotten except that I am sure it was different. I sat down beside her on the grating, my back against the shop front. We stayed there about three hours. Looking back over thirty years, I can now cope with those three hours; but at the time I was on the verge of being dest...

"A BOOK THAT SWELLS IN THE MIND AND HAUNTS THE THOUGHTS."
--Los Angeles Times

"Like most good things, [this book] is deceptively simple. Insights steal their way into the reader's mind the same way Anna steals into the reader's heart."
--Chicago Sun-Times

Autorentext

Fynn is the pseudonym of Sydney George Hopkins, who wrote Mister God, This Is Anna, Anna's Book, and Anna and the Black Knight.

Klappentext

From the moment Anna and Fynn locked eyes, their times together were filled with delight and discovery. In her completely frank and honest way, Anna had an astonishing ability to ask--and answer--life's largest questions, and to feel the purpose of being. You see, Anna had a very special friendship with Mr. God.
"Extraordinarily moving!"
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

Leseprobe
"The difference from a person and an angel is easy. Most of an angel is on
the inside and most of a person is on the outside."

These are the words of six-year-old Anna, sometimes called Mouse, Hum, or Joy. At five years old, Anna knew absolutely the purpose of being, knew the meaning of love, and
was a personal friend and helper of Mister God. At six, Anna was a theologian, mathematician, philosopher, poet, and gardener. If you asked her a question you would always get an answer--in due course. On some occasions the answer would be delayed for weeks or months; but eventually, in her own good time, the answer would come: direct, simple, and much to the point.

She never made eight years; she died by an accident. She died with a grin on her beautiful face. She died saying, "I bet Mister God lets me get into heaven for this." And I bet he did too.

I knew Anna for just about three and a half years. Some people lay claim
to fame by being the first person to sail around the world alone, or to
stand on the moon, or by some other act of bravery. All the world has
heard of such people. Not many people have heard of me, but I, too, have a claim
to fame; for I knew Anna. To me this was the high peak of adventure. This
was no casual knowing; it required total application. For I knew her on
her own terms, the way she demanded to be known: from the inside first.
"Most of an angel is in the inside," and this is the way I learned to know
her--my first angel. Since then I have learned to know two other angels,
but that's another story.

My name is Fynn. Well that's not quite true; my real name doesn't matter
all that much since my friends all called me Fynn and it stuck. If you
know your Irish mythology you will know that Fynn was pretty big; me too.
Standing about six feet two, weighing some 225 pounds, close to being a
fanatic on physical culture, the son of an Irish mother and a Welsh
father, with a passion for hot dogs and chocolate raisins--not together, I
may add. My great delight was to roam about dock-
land in the night-time, particularly if it was foggy.

My life with Anna began on such a night. I was nineteen at the time,
prowling the streets and alleys with my usual supply of hot dogs, the
street lights with their foggy halos showing dark formless shapes moving out from the darkness of the fog and disappearing again. Down the street a little way, a baker's shop window softened and warmed the raw night with its gas lamps. Sitting on the
grating under the window was a little girl. In those days children
wandering the streets at night were no uncommon sight. I had seen such
things before, but on this occasion it was different. How or why it was
different has long since been forgotten except that I am sure it was
different. I sat down beside her on the grating, my back against the shop
front. We stayed there about three hours. Looking back over thirty years,
I can now cope with those three hours; but at the time I was on the verge
of being destroyed. That November night was pure hell; my guts tied
themselves into all manner of complicated knots.

Perhaps even then something of her angelic nature caught hold of me; I'm
quite prepared to believe that I had been bewitched from the beginning. I
sat down with …