The Book of Love

Ugh. What an irksome, aggravating, wonderful and beautiful book. I can’t say it was always a joy to read, but it always gave me joy to keep reading, and I know that makes no sense but in many ways neither does the book so nyah.

A lot of my hot buttons in this one: handwavey, superpowerful, how-convenient magic, with completely unexplained rules and equally unexplained inconsistencies. Soul-hurting lookism, where everyone is just so damn attractive. Appalling cruelty. Multiple forms of the amnesia gimmick (the Project Hail Mary and Seven Moons of Maali Almeida type, where protagonists start out not remembering the vitally important and you-might-think-memorable events that led to their predicaments; and also the You Will Forget This Ever Happened mesmerism stuff, both equally cheesy). And, sigh, the one character I related to—the one with the strong moral code and sense of responsibility, who is skeptical and wary of the magical elements, who simply tries to be invisible and do some good—is derided almost nonstop, called boring and more, not just by other character in dialog but even in the author’s own narrative voice.

But.

But, dammit, the author herself is in on it. The characters themselves get irritated at the magic. They vent frustration over the cruelty, and draw frustrated but reasonable parallels to the random cruelties of natural forces. They invent workarounds for their amnesia. Every time you think Link is being sloppy or lazy, she gently winks and lets you in on the joke. But it’s not a farce; not even close. It’s exquisitely smart. Much more importantly, Link understands kindness. She really, really understands it. And cruelty, and love. And she doesn’t overdo any of them nor does she get preachy. Partway through I realized that, magical gimmicks aside, this is purely a book about choices and seeing and caring. It really is a book about loving. And I could go on for hours more, but just go read it.