Kelsey

There were parts of this book that deeply annoyed me (I can only tolerate "water-blue" and "deep-red" and "rusty-brown" as descriptors for so long...), but on the whole it had a One Hundred Years of Solitude quality about it that I quite liked.

I'm not sure if I'm just a sucker for the intergenerational story or if this was a genuinely excellent book... I guess either way, I'm a fan.

Having never read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (oops), I probably didn't appreciate this one as much as I could have.

With that being said, I still loved it. (As much as one can love a book so heavily about slavery, anyway...) The dialogue was incredible, the pace of the story was perfect, and the vengeance was just OH so sweet. It may be the first time I've ever internally cheered (and maybe even smiled a little) during an intense murder scene. I need to stew on this one a little longer to fully appreciate the themes and its message and all the reasons that made this book such a success, but for now, I'll suffice it to say: 5 ⭐️

I guess one never realizes that their worldview is entirely too narrow until they get exposed to new ones. That's what happened for me with this book; I'd never thought about motherhood or family in this way before. I'd never really taken a step back to think about the intricacies of what life as a trans woman must be like aside from the basic, "I can hardly imagine how hard it would be to have everyone question and challenge your identity constantly..." But the ways that the author explores dissociation, feminine relationships, and challenges the reader to dive deeper into new possibilities for what motherhood and intimacy can look like helped me open my eyes to a perspective I never would have considered before. And isn't that one of the main reasons to read a book in the first place?

My only qualms, really: the dialogue was often unrealistic and a bit pretentious (to me, anyway). Reese, in particular, was in turns both self righteous and gracious to such profound degrees that it sometimes felt like her character could have been two different people depending on the chapter or page.

(Slight spoiler: I also would probably argue that Amy's detransition scene toward the end was entirely too rushed, but I could be convinced otherwise.)

Hm. I wasn't unable to stop thinking about it. I wasn't bored. I wasn't floored by the writing, but I wasn't annoyed by it either. I could live without the sequel, and yet I plan to read it anyway.

It was very "good-enough-to-keep-going," I suppose. My main complaint is there were a handful of plot holes and inconsistencies that were never addressed, and it's unclear whether or not they'll come back up in the next book or two. I guess I'll find out! Eventually.

I'd be interested to dabble in Bardugo's other stuff since I rarely find high output fantasy authors that I can stand.

I rarely feel sad when a book's over, but I find myself in a funk this morning. I can't put my finger on it, but this book was unlike anything I've ever read. It didn't exactly blow my mind in the way that some books do with the prose, but there was just something about it that made feel so deeply... involved? Which I was surprised to feel, given that it was authored by a middle-aged white guy in the 50s. Normally those don't really do it for me.

I get that it was an "allegory of Genesis" or whatever (I'm due for a reread, I guess, because I think I missed ~90% of the correlations), but even without the biblical parallels (or maybe in spite of them), it was a masterfully written story about just being a human. There are tons of books out there that try and succeed at capturing various facets of our experience, but this is the first one that's ever white-knuckle gripped me like this.

Our culture is so annoyingly polarized into "good" and "bad" or "right" and "wrong" (or "right" and "left" maybe more accurately) these days, and it's easy to forget that there's a little good and a little bad in everyone (unless you're Cathy, I suppose). We're all just trying to figure our shit out and fight our own demons, ya know.

So, thank you, Mr. 50s man (admittedly very famous 50s author man) for the reminder that “thou mayest” choose to be good and kind just as “thou mayest” choose to be a shithead. We are not bound to be one or the other even if the sins of our father are seemingly insurmountable.

Neat read, highly recommend, etc.