Gorgeously written, though in brief sections leapt far beyond my personal threshold for graphic detail.

Vuong is undeniably a beautiful, emotive writer, it’s so much emotion in every word that by the end of it I felt squeezed dry and drained completely, flattened and spent and incapacitated. 

Thank God for the whisper of hope he leaves us with…

I ‘liked’ it… for the most part… save for a few noxious chunks I could have done without, and the numerous times I cringed or rolled my quadragenarian eyes.

Given my moon-high expectations of the author and her previous work (although, I might have seen this coming since the Vacationing Peeps), I finished this novel in a green fog of lifting disappointment. Yes, the ending was satisfying on multiple levels, predictable (as we have come to love and expect), and all the unravelled bits get tied up in redemptive embraces (it’s what we want, I’m not spoiling anything). But it was … well, less of what I loved in Beach Read, more of what I didn’t like in Book Lovers, and a touch of what I despise about this T-Swift & Social-Media obsessed generation.

But please understand: As I’ve already mentioned, this is coming from someone distinctly not living the transition to her thirties in this era, therefore significantly less able to relate (though I oft understand the younger generations, it doesn’t mean I can always precisely connect to their current experience). So, it’s my problem as a reader, and what follows here is purely my opinion, which is what a review essentially is, to give context, in case we’re unclear…

All contemplative philosophical musings and complex depth of character have been inexorably snuffed from Henry’s writing in this newest novel, replaced by narcissistic interpersonal conflicts reminiscent of a ‘Friends’ episode (read: shallow, self-absorbed, rife with 1st-world and/or white-people problems), silenced by a generational demand for endless ‘magic’ drink binges (I say ‘magic’ as the drinkers only ever feel the temporary sting of a mild hangover and never the consequences of longer-term side-effects; when Henry writes about these same characters in 15 years, they should be battling liver cancer and kidney failure), a smattering of pop-culture references aimed at people born after 1990, and in très anti-Gus fashion (see Augustus Everett in Beach Read), the handful of male characters are written as underdeveloped Daves swathed in ‘hard’ bodies with pushover malleable personalities of damp lettuce.

The drama goes from passive aggressive ‘silent treatment’ to explosive and fiery whine-parties, and these people lean heavy into stunted incompetent communication (Henry ultimately blames all the parents, naturally). It plays at emulating the twisted complex misunderstandings of a Shakespearean comedy, but slips on a banana and breaks a baby finger instead. Apart from Cleo (MVP), the supplemental staff are a bit 2-dimensional, formulaic, and giving vibes of wannabe famous social-media personalities. The two main characters thrive in quasi-self-conscious behaviours that accumulate wasted years of people-pleasing misguidedness. Apparently, this is an appealing experience for tens of thousands of other readers.

Me: Beginning to wonder if the alternate cover for this novel should be a photo of a cellphone screen with the pic of a shirtless cowboy in a 10-gallon Cattleman with his bronzed 6-pack out for summer.

There’s no denying that Henry's writing is pleasantly easy-to-read, but the content is becoming less appealing to this reader. The banal motif of a twenty-first century me-first romance was too much this time (see my review on Book Lovers: the decline is complete), and the supporting cast didn’t do near enough to add depth and complexity to the story surrounding a relationship built on bad communication and physical fumbling.

I don’t read pure romance for romance's sake; I don't like the genre, but I’ve been pleasantly convinced by Henry’s other novels (read 5, loved most). I still liked this one enough that I was mildly entertained throughout, and I was satisfied by the ending, but in comparison to Henry's other work, this is by far my least favourite.

I love that the main character/narrator is a terrifying shark-toothed, blue-skinned, periodically unhygienic individual who rarely does anything with her hair and falls for an infuriating boy with the hooves-and-horns look going on. I’ve been dying to read something by one of these folk; I deeply relate… o.O 

 

Again, Book One in a Holly Black series drops me in the dead middle of teetering on almost-mediocre, almost-great, but not quite either, and yet a little of both. 

 

While shockingly unique, presenting a most unappealing main character we desperately want to love, it lacks excitement and the connection we desire, but it’s Holly Black, so we know it’s coming… There will be a Book Two; it will likely be a lot more exciting and engaging. Look forward to it… 

 Wow, what does one say after reading this tome…? There are many issues colliding on the pages, and with decent literary equilibrium, MacDonald delivers every social issue with insight and a fair attempt at understanding the myriad perspectives of those deeply affected by each going concern. At the heart of the story is the question of personal choice in forming identity, and the confounding insistence of society towards majority conformity — but it’s not so simple, and this is the crux of the novel’s message: it’s not simple at all. No matter what choice is made at whatever stage in life it’s made, all those affected by the choice will feel the repercussions of the decision, not only the individual for (or by, if they’re so lucky) whom the choice is made. 

 

Who owns the land? 

Who defines the parameters of a body? 

Who determines the sanity of a mind? 

Who can say what is the right response to things that appear contrary to nature, but that are birthed in and by nature itself? 

 

Throughout the reading, my intrigue grew. However, despite stellar writing for the most part (and here’s where the stars began falling), there were whole sections where the writing was a series of unmarked dialogue or onomatopoeic ejaculations that did nothing to advance or add to the story; indeed, I cringed a couple times—not at the complex content, but at some of the delivery. To listen to it was double awkward (i.e.: Mary & Henry). 

 

The author narrated this herself, but she would have done well to find a narrator who could pull off genuine Southwest Scottish and North English accents, as well as the American. In the end, her characters had mere hints of the intended accent, which caused the story to lack authenticity. I feel that might have gone off better in my own head if I’d read it to myself. 

 

Overall, an intriguing and insightful dive (deep waters, nearly 30h/800pgs) into the historical minds of a certain number of marginalised individuals. I recommend this novel to social-sciences, law & ethics, and psychology majors—reams of content for discussion, that’s for sure. 

 Good little mystery, vivid characterisation, complex and fascinating setting, and the added believable presentation of Emily Dickinson in her role as precocious young woman of the era, invasive yet private in her interests, reserved yet trusting in her relationships. 

 

This is as much excitement as Emily Dickinson ever had outside of her secluded abode with a person outside her own family. Willa is a smart character, despite her lack of education and opportunity, and we get the story from her perspective as a servant to, and eventual friend, of Emily Dickinson. The characterisation of Dickinson is highly believable, a pleasant surprise. There is a murder, a cover-up, some cheeky banter, a few red herrings and false leads, and the anticlimactic reveal, but the best part about this mystery novel is the setting; the backdrop of public unrest over the issue of slavery is entwined in the story, and a divergent American people are on the verge of civil war. 

 

Running along at an easy-reading pace, the novel satisfies quickly, though I would have been far more satisfied if Emily had been the one telling the story herself. I’m sure that would have been supremely difficult to write, but it would have been stars more interesting to this reader. 

 

Emily does have a selection of insightful and poetic quips she drops into conversation throughout the novel, and those are gems amid a sparking setting. The best part of tasting these few lines and not getting the whole story from Emily’s perspective (yes, I know, it would have been exasperatingly complex, not to mention potentially controversial) is that reading those perspicacious one-liners drives a person to poetryfoundation.org/poets/emily-dickinson to read more… and contemplate… 

 

‘Because I could not stop for Death — 

He kindly stopped for me — …’ 

The Benefits
I listened to the audiobook, which enhanced the experience enormously. I could listen to the smoke-thick and honey-smooth voice of iconic Iranian-American actress Shohreh Aghdashloo for an age. Her tone, sage and shrewd, grandmotherly, yet revealing a hint of the sensual woman beneath, lends itself to a narration that brings earth and fire to this tale; she truly bends the spine and knobs the fingers as she relates the joyous agony of carpet weaving, coats the dust of the street on your skin, and soothes it once again in the hot aromatic steam bath of the cleansing hammam. I wish Aghdashloo would narrate more audiobooks, for I’d listen to them all.

This ends well. The final third of the novel is recompense and forgiveness, an unmasking of shame, a loss of naivety, and our unnamed heroine matures into womanhood, marred but wiser for it, and she directs her life towards a true-to-context pursuit of equity and justice, despite the snags of society that clutch at her chador. It finally becomes the novel it promised to be from the start.

The Big Bother
In constructing our heroine’s closet of shame, stripping off her innocence, dragging her down to the depths of despair by the unfair hand that distributes society’s wealth, and marring her every relationship, the author offers far too much erotic detail in what feels like modern American language. While this sordid descent is absolutely necessary to the plot—and to the awakening of our girl on her journey to self-actualisation—the delivery is… well, it’s counterproductive in its purpose to be eventually empowering. I believe the demeaning detail is unnecessary to the overall story; it serves to give explicit imagery to the very thing the novel advocates against, that is: it promotes that women be well-versed sex-slaves, valued solely for their private performance (giving great details of such), regardless of their brains, personality, talents, or any other distinct individual or female characteristics. And yet, the novel itself reels against such exploitation and patriarchal oppression.

The author says (in a post-novel interview) that her friend would let her 13 year old daughter read this, and I think to myself: only in a world where the 13 year old was preparing to be sold off to a man twice her age and required to earn her place as a first/only wife in his household. I don’t want to live in that world. I don’t want any 13 year old to live in that world… and I think the author would agree whole-heartedly. So, I’m left a bit baffled at the editor-author combined decision to include such details in these passages, for the information and idea of the oppression and our heroine’s naive submission to the systemic abuse could have been adequately communicated without the digression to smut. Let other smutty novels do that work as they please (and let readers be properly pleased by them). Novels written with the intent to empower should communicate oppression and shame by transmitting a spirit of power to overcome, not promulgate and glorify the acts that bring about the shame. The middle third of the novel was wholly dedicated to these racy details, and I nearly dropped it, if not for the narrator. Honestly, innuendo and euphemism have their place, and they could have been employed and thrived on these pages, but instead we got EL James wrapped up in the Kama Sutra…

The Beauty
Again, I applaud the choice of narrator for the audiobook, and I’m glad I listened. The writing is simple overall, but not simplistic, and the folkloric tales woven between the story are prophetic and relevant—and beautiful—culminating in the most creative tale of all (which the author invented herself). The passages that centred on carpet-weaving in the 17th Century, including careful choice of wool and colour, the imagining and creation of unique designs, and the relationship developed with her mentor, all served to enrich the novel’s setting and characters. The journey of mother and daughter is adequately harsh and peppered with the distrust and distaste every mother and daughter experience in this tumultuous and fragile human relationship, yet it is also filled with the joy of life and love that can only be shared between mother and daughter; a thread of golden hope, even when it is thin and frayed.

…
‘Often we must live with imperfection, she said. ‘And when people worry about a stain on their floor, what do they do?’
Despite how I felt, I had to laugh, for I knew what she meant: ‘They throw a carpet over it,’ I replied.
‘From Sheraz to Tabriz, from Baghdad to Herot, that is what Iranians do,’ she said.
I was quiet for a moment, for that was at the heart of it.
…

 A heart-wrenching exposé…I’m glad I read this last installation of the series, but I have to say I’m also glad it’s the last one. I don’t know that my emotions can handle much more of the Beartown drama. It was a very intense journey with a group of shockingly wonderful people—desperately messed up people, but wonderful, even in their horrendous flaws. I liked meeting the new folks from Hyet in this one also, especially Hannah and Johnny. 

 

But Benji… oh, he’s the best… when the book opens up with Benji, already I knew it was going to be a good story…and it was all that and more, because: Benji. 🥹

 

Backman’s style is unique, he drops a grenade, then backtracks and unfolds how we got to this point; and sometimes, it’s a dummy, and we’re relieved, but we just never know when it might be for real, and so it’s this tug of emotions, highs and lows, and we fall in love so easily with his characters (why is that?) that it hurts when they hurt, and we hurt so much in this story… 

 

I love how this ended, even if it also hurt. I’m not one for tying up all the loose ends, I don’t mind leaving things in the air, but in this case, I found it beautifully satisfying to know the futures, the endings, the fulfilled promises, and to see what good came from such fatal mistakes and horrific misunderstandings. 

 

It was a rough few winters, but I’m ever so glad I spent time with this cast of characters in a cold, northern, hockey-obsessed town. 

 Thanks, Mr Backman. 

Je ne sais pas quoi dire... ce n'est pas une histoire d'aventure, ni un drame, ni un mystère ; simplement, le fleuve monte, et les quatre membres de la famille racontent leurs histoires façon "flashback" pour nous amener au point philosophique du déluge, comme si La Seine, aussi la famille... une noyade d'émotions, de vies, de toutes les belles choses de la ville de Paris… bien philosophiques ; lent et intense, mais avec un propos très important, le message pour un peuple qui ne parle jamais de son « déluge » d'émotions entre la famille : la vie est courte ; l'amour n'est pas trop cher; vivez en amour et parlez des choses importantes avant qu'il ne soit trop tard...

I love cases solved by Charlotte & Ingram, the entertaining distractions run by Mrs Watson and Co., the danger of the ever-looming Moriarty+minions, and the inclusion of unwanted family drama on board. On this ship, there resides a supporting cast that go from delightfully flamboyant to subtlety inconspicuous, and they all work together to spin a tantalising story; it folds over itself like an expertly crafted flakey pastry, layered with sweet buttery flavour between leaves of crust and intrigue. Plots intertwine in a race to escape the devious Moriarty by the high seas, and as they also aim to crack a dark-cosy whodunnit, Charlotte must think on a forced scant diet of steamed fish as she sits in the aromatic presence of salted chips and seared steak and glazed tarts. All the while, a slow burn romance stirs in the shadows of a sleeping ship.

Full of wit and complex drama, this is another succulent addition to the Charlotte Holmes series.

I hope Sherry Thomas plans on many more…