Blackwood

I am tiring of reading books that can't make it all the way through. The first half of Blackwood sets the stage for what could have been a southern gothic masterpiece, filled with allure and dread in equal measure. The second half of the novel reads more like a muted character study of the broken and damaged, straying from the mood of the first half and, for me, losing the intrigue. I just couldn't bring myself to invest in what would be for the boy or for Colburn or Celia or Myer and the end was a self-serving ode to the self-martyred. Tortured souls who's only act of bravery is existing. I can't help but feel “meh.” And, yet, that first half though. The unsettling cadence, the twisted and consuming kudzu, the promise of niggling fear. That was good stuff.