The long time it took for me to read this had nothing to do with its appeal, and everything to do with the very intense and busy month I’ve lived throThe long time it took for me to read this had nothing to do with its appeal, and everything to do with the very intense and busy month I’ve lived through.
There was a welcome mournfulness, depth of feeling, and a keen eye for characterization that animated this novel. I wouldn’t call it frightening, exactly; I’d call it involving, entertaining, and psychologically grounded in a manner that’s rare in horror literature.
I also found King’s prose to be pleasantly free of cliches and tropes, with a firm, unsentimental poetry.
I saw King quoted as saying this is his favorite book of those he’s written, and it makes sense; it feels keenly observed and personal in a way that not all of his work does.
This was a wonderfully surprising, gonzo, strange, funny, and very absorbing novel, and is one of the most out-and-out enjoyable reads I’ve had in quiThis was a wonderfully surprising, gonzo, strange, funny, and very absorbing novel, and is one of the most out-and-out enjoyable reads I’ve had in quite some time. I had been wary of diving into this book over the past couple of years; more than once, I’ve bounced hard off of other popular, super-hyped contemporary SFF literature I’ve read. But Tamsyn Muir writes with bucketloads of confidence, verve, wit, imagination, and even a welcome dash of heart, and from page one, she had me eagerly devouring chapter after chapter, along for every twisty inch of her wild, fascinating, goofy, and disturbing ride.
What keeps my rating from reaching 5 stars for me — it is truly *thisclose* — is that not all of Muir’s emotional beats resonate quite as much as I think they could have if there was just a bit more care taken in earning them. But over all, the fact that Muir can walk a line of convincingly rendering many genuinely comical scenes, and then swiftly and effortlessly pivoting into darker moments that feel truly harrowing, is quite impressive. I’m sorry I took so long to join the hype train, only because I’ve missed out on earlier enjoyment, and I am looking forward to continuing this series....more
While this is in many ways an evocative, poetic, meditative novel, it’s also written with so much restraint as to be a bit alienating. I have great afWhile this is in many ways an evocative, poetic, meditative novel, it’s also written with so much restraint as to be a bit alienating. I have great affection for the themes of grief and loss and memory that Ogawa is working with here, but the manner in which she has abstracted them leaves me at a distance, in the end. I will say that reading a novel about losing and missing simple, everyday objects and activities resonates strongly in this time of a pandemic, but I longed for a more visceral, vital experience as I made my way through this novel’s dreamlike pages....more
This was a tough one for me. I’d been on a real roll, reading one book after another that knocked me out, and I picked this one up with high hopes: itThis was a tough one for me. I’d been on a real roll, reading one book after another that knocked me out, and I picked this one up with high hopes: it’s a finalist for both the Hugo and Nebula Awards, and several of my bookworm friends either liked or loved it. (One of my bookworm friends hated it, but her reaction seemed to be an outlier. However, her taste and mine converges more often than not, so in hindsight, I should have considered myself more forewarned by her dislike.)
It started out in a nicely whimsical manner, which was a pleasant shift from the intensity of the last couple of books I’d read. But soon enough, Harrow’s quirks — an over abundance of similes (sometimes three or more on a page); a seeming obsession with descriptions of how things smell; and ultimately, a lack of anything approaching consistent characterization — just grated on me, leaving me numb to the story, until it was just hard work for me to get through it.
I recognize that my reaction is something of an outlier. I’m simply allergic to her approach, here. It worked very well for a good number of people. But much like I’ve felt after reading a lot of contemporary fantasists’ work, I’m left disappointed by the messy, shallow execution of what is a compelling premise. There’s goodwill at play here, an earnest desire to address the societal wrongs of oppression, unchecked power, capitalism, racism, and inequality. But all of that goodwill and promise born from a compelling premise collapses under twee, pretentious, messy writing....more
This book is beloved by several of my friends here on Goodreads, but I cannot say that it is beloved by me. I feel like I’m a bit of a grump for sayinThis book is beloved by several of my friends here on Goodreads, but I cannot say that it is beloved by me. I feel like I’m a bit of a grump for saying this, but while it started out more or less in a promising fashion, its charms became increasingly elusive, and by the last quarter, its fractured narrative and stylistic leaps and confusing characterizations conspired to cause it to devolve into near nonsense.
I think Headley has some formidable skill with wordcraft — albeit an often excessively arch and bitter skill — and at times there is an almost incantatory, propulsive energy to her sentences. But ultimately I think that while with this book she is trying to say profound things about who’s a hero and who’s a monster — a word she leans into over and over again as an unwelcome reminder of what this book is about — she really, brutally fails at that, and winds up saying not much of anything that resonates on a human level, at all.
Among her other failings: rich white suburban ladies and big strong white male cops are sort of easy targets, really, in the end, and Headley ultimately doesn’t add anything new to the miles of prose that have already been written — much more incisively and with much more depth and specificity — about both sorts of folks.
I love myths and legends and allegories and poetic language; I believe in their metaphorical power that at their best can shine a bright light on the human experience; and I was hopeful that this book, unabashedly inspired as it is by Beowulf in particular, and by the notion of legends and stories in general, would soar into gorgeous, stirring heights. But in the end it just flailed about a lot, painting some vivid pictures here and there, eliciting a chuckle every now and then, but finally just bloodily and histrionically sputtering itself silly.
I apologize to those for whom this book was beautiful and moving and stirring, but for me it was pretentious and impenetrable and very very frustrating. ...more
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