Part I
The Pull of the Earth seems like an interesting book. It starts off slowly, and hits a number of somber and pessimistic notes. I spend a disproportionate amount of my free time being somber and pessimistic, so I can feel something good slowly creeping up. The end of the first chapter is dramatic, and it starts off with the slow yet immediate immersion into a world that I always enjoy. The first few chapters are pretty good, and distinct enough that the different eras should be easy enough to tell apart.

Part II
It was something my friends and I did, it was always an experience; the subtle contours of the plastic, fitting perfectly into a hand, warming up as you and it became more comfortable with each other. The resistance of a trigger, a button, the way movement went from rocky and jagged to as smooth and subtle as silk. The cheers when something amazing happened, the disappointment when it happened to you. The insistent beeps, harbingers of defeat when arriving with other sounds, heralds of victory when you still stood afterwards. The way the lack, the complete understanding, of competition paradoxically made the competition even better.

Part III
"... what the truck sounds like ripping through the morning air," - page 19
I like the word ripping, like it's tearing through, breaking the silence.

"When Reese looked up, Tom was silhouetted, tall against the darkening sky, like an angry god" - page 17
Powerful imagery, and then it may be implying something about Tom.

"It was sunup when they met, and the fields were quiet as a graveyard, aside from a cold wind coming from up from the south." - Edited from page 13

"Tom's father was killed there, crushed under falling slate like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws." - Edited from page 12

Part IV
It's truly a mountain road, all the way up to the campsite. Mountain, in the sense of the word that only people living on and around mountains can understand. In stark contrast to the sheer, barren cliffs surrounding them, there are small lakes, and rivers around, with small boats, rafts, people. They're probably big, and close enough for their hidden and deep blue to be more real than the post-cards that shelter them from the rest of the world. They're far away though, minute, as if they were separated into a world removed from the road. Even when the rusty tan of rocks that hug the road gives way to trees, that mismatched quilt of autumn colours is still so far away.