Mrs Death Misses Death

Thank you to Cannongate and NetGalley for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review.

So. Well. I debated what to give this, because I truly appreciated the things Ms Godden said here. I even agree with the politics of it. Intersectional feminism, discussions of poverty, misogyny, racism, sexism–all necessary things to discuss, all things about which we must do something.

My problem was the way the very minimal–for all intents and purposes, non-existent–story handled everything. I was very excited to receive an ARC. Death is in my wheelhouse. And whilst Death has been portrayed as a woman before (Sandman, of course), she has never been an overtly Black woman, or an overtly homeless person. So that is potentially cool. As is the general concept of a young person finding her desk and buying it, and then becoming a sort of friend to her.

But the concept is all this book has. It has no story. We have background on Wolf, one of our narrators, aforementioned desk-buyer and Death-friend, and his tragic childhood: First, he loses his mother in a fire and incidentally meets Death; after which, he ends up at the home of his abusive grandfather and his trampled grandm0ther. He also is in therapy? There was a strange moment when he's in therapy and realizing his personal relationship with Death will end soon. So, was she in his mind? Some sort of coping mechanism?

That's about as much plot as a reader will get. The rest is vague ruminations on Death and politics and the mess of the world around us. One nonsensical passage implies Jack the Ripper was a woman dressed as a man? Was this supposed to be as transphobic as it felt?

This book has mishmash of prose, poetry, lyrics, and it can be pretty incoherent at times. There are some lovely sentences; then, there are repetitive ramblings that read like mediocre poetry and filled with circular wording. It becomes tedious and also seems to lose all sense of meaning.

If you're looking for a novel, avoid this. This isn't a novel. A novel doesn't have to have a traditional plot, but it should at least have some dynamism, some change, some conclusion. Rather, this book should be advertised as a collection of loosely connected poems about Death and the darkness of the world around us in the here and now. But calling this a novel does a disservice to readers and the book itself, because the book will be set up to fail because of our expectations.

Also, don't really expect to connect with anyone. This isn't that type of work. This is more a poet's attempt at working through the tragedy around us. Which is understandable, sympathetic, and artistic. But, perhaps because of my expectations, this book left me cold; it was tedious, repetitive, as I've said, and tried to hard to have clever wording that just fell apart. There is merit here; however, I just don't think it's as effective as the author might have wished.