Sure, the plot was predictable. Yes, the genre here might be closer to chick-lit than I’m comfortable with. But, I still liked it. I liked the irritable, opinionated AJ Fikry, I liked his policeman friend, I kind of liked Amelia and Maya. Mostly, I liked the idea of an island bookstore owned by a cranky, book nerd. Oh, and all the literary references.
I loved this short, spare novella. In 109 pages, Keegan puts you squarely in the mind and body of its protagonist, Furlong. You feel the pangs of long-ago childhood angst, the chill of an Irish cold spell, the ugliness of small town bigotry, the warmth of a coal stove, the despair over the human cruelty. The Irish dialogue felt more like music or birdsong, making me wish my own language wasn’t so ordinary and flat. I felt sad to leave Furlong’s side after so short a visit, but the tale and ending was told in just the right way, with just the right words.
I enjoyed this book and its writing style. It would have been better if I didn’t already know the story from watching the TV series, but the fact that it was still as good as it was when I knew everything that was going to happen earns a five-star rating in my book. The TV show was good, but the writing here is terrific, and the character development is so much richer than what can be done on screen.
Highlights
Most of us hold that some things only happen to other people. Many of us hold that one such thing is death.
Lamb’s laugh wasn’t a genuine surrender to amusement; more of a temporary derangement. Not a laugh you’d want to hear from anyone holding a stick.
The Service had a long and honourable tradition of women dying behind enemy lines, but was less enthusiastic about placing them behind important desks.
To outward appearances Taverner was a suit, but her heart belonged with the field guys, the handlers. Besides, if you removed operations from the curriculum, security didn’t amount to more than putting on a peaked cap and a shiny badge. As far as the war on terror went, you might as well start digging trenches, and handing out tin hats.
Alcohol thickened the syllables, and slurred the sibilants.
Rereading one of the first books I was enthralled with as an adult is a trip. I remembered parts of it vividly, but there were huge gaps.
Herbert must have used the Pacific Northwest as his guide for Caladan, but when did he visit the desert? I could not help but compare Vashon and Arizona as Caladan and Arrakis.
Dune is a classic Hero’s Journey, which must have still seemed fresh in 1965. So many parts of this book are still relevant.
A reading web site recommended this book as a literary mystery with an unbelievably great plot twist. The story opens with hit and run murder of a five-year-old boy while his devastated mother cradles her son’s dead body. Tough subject matter for a grieving parent, but I persevered.
This was a good book. I liked the characters and the storyline. The reasons Sam and Sadie found to be mad at the other were a little frustrating, but I think that’s ultimately the lesson they each needed to learn. The portrayal of grief and loss was really well done.
A strange, strange book. So many Russian named-characters with small bit parts. So many references to Russian literature and culture that I failed to grasp. The story of the devil coming to Moscow to … what? Save the master who wrote a true story about Pontius Pilate? I am utterly confused. I’m giving this book three stars, but only because at times the story turned interesting. I still have no idea what this allegory represented.
