Book, what the h*ck?
Don't get me wrong, in the best possible way, but what was this book? I almost need to fling it at other people and make them read it so I can process it.
Cashore does something fascinating here with genre and questions of what makes a story reasonable and creates verisimilitude and readerly expectations. But she also tells a story made out of disparate parts that only makes to the reader from the readerly view, which totally messes with one's sense of denouement when it's clear that the characters can't access the resolution.
But she also just tells a story--she isn't a late 20th century experimental author, so this isn't couched in Pynchonesque language nor does she explain what she is trying to do in the book with the book. She just does it.
I have this odd sensation that we respect books more when they tell us they're being weird and provocative--and so excuse themselves from telling a compelling story--than when books give equal priority to the narrative and so don't explain the conceit in order to protect the reader experience.
I understand why people don't like this book, but I kinda loved it.