Yes, it's written well enough, and the space-worlds and characters are carefully thought out. It's nice to have a generally upbeat story... but should a good book really be 'nice'? Shouldn't it be a little challenging, a little subversive, a little less derivative, a lot less, well, twee? I enjoyed it well enough but I doubt if I'll remember it in a month or two.
Reading a book about how music sounds is never going to quite work. Reading a retro-futuristic dystopian book about how types of music that don't exist sound is never going to work at all. Hampering characters with no memories is also going to make rounding them out a tad challenging. All in all, this reads more like an undeveloped first draft - or a heavily cut draft of a much longer book.
With great hype comes great disappointment and this follows that well-trodden path (across the abandoned beaches and into the twisted local community, fanned with the poisoned winds of misplaced religious fervour). No discernible terror, very little drama and, of course, a frustratingly vague resolution. Hmm. Did I miss something?
Great cover, though.
Literary fiction that's lived entirely in the main character's head. It's very lyrical and contemplative and all that but really nothing much happens and even the promise of action is so laid back as to not bother happening at all. I may read another but I'll probably forget I've read this first.
Beautiful and terrible - that's the world of the admirable Patrick Ness and a painful mirror on the real world. This fable is spun from delicate words and difficult circumstances - a tour de force, I suppose, but lacking a core emotional engagement that would really have drawn me in.
A strange, evocative book that begins as a story of a community and becomes a fable of individualism. The unusual writing style was well judged and appropriate, laying itself out slowly and able to support the increasing weirdness of the protagonist's experiences until the inevitable ambiguous ending.
[I liked this cover best despite the misspelling of the author's name!]
How odd. After enjoying the first book so much, the second one made so little impact that I forgot to review it for a month. It's more of the same, but sillier and grimmer and with even less resolution. And so many kings (and queens)! If any land needed to be a republic, it's this one.
It's an unpromising mix of things I don't usually choose to read: dodgy sex, graphic violence, tedious politics, suffering innocents and superfluous adjectives. It didn't end properly, there were too many names, and one story arc remained totally detached from the rest. But it's also clever and well constructed with fascinating, three-dimensional characters and [sighs in resignation] I couldn't put it down.
Not many writers make me laugh out loud, but Pym's wry and knowing humour is just my style. Jokes about indexers and editors also go down well. While neither deep nor memorable, and pretty similar to the other Pym books I've read, it's still a template for the modern domestic novel.
This 'companion novel' to 'The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry' is really more a back story for the goal of that pilgrimage. Beautifully written and tragic, as you'd expect from Joyce, but Queenie is not the most compelling character and ultimately it all seems rather unnecessary.
This was instantly forgettable - the plot, what there was of it, didn't make sense, and the characters seemed shoehorned in. But the prose is undemanding and it's readable enough for the holidays.
If there's a local murder, you can depend on Brother Cadfael to solve it with very little evidence. He'll probably also coincidentally meet someone who is, or has been, significant in his life, and help young lovers to escape in his spare time (of which he seems to have plenty as he's always skiving off church services). Again, historically interesting and engaging but a little formulaic.
This was surprisingly engaging for a parallel universe Canadian urban fantasy novel about a rather-too-close magical family that enjoy indulging in what they euphemistically call 'rituals'. Especially as I had no idea what was going on, or why, for most of it, as the author seems to practise neither the 'show' nor 'tell' form of fiction writing.
Despite her 1950s settings, Barbara Pym is a strikingly modern writer. The 21st century doesn't have the monopoly on wry cynicism. And, to be honest, the sexism hasn't really changed all that much either.