Mina's Matchbox by Yoko Ogawa

 

This was about as radical a change of pace from last night's novel as I could plausibly manage. I wouldn't say it's not dark at all, but the darkness is very much lurking in the background, a sense that the narrator is recounting people she has lost, experiences she can never really get back to, perhaps a self she can never be again. It's a charming novel on the surface, all the characters here are remarkably likeable, if perhaps sometimes exaggeratedly quirky, even those se later see as deeply flawed or maybe worse (though I think actually evil isn't in the range, here). The language is crystalline, the alchemy of translation has done good work, here. The dialogue all rings true. The ending, the actual falling apart of things, unfolds really late and kinda suddenly, though there are ample precursors. It's a really bittersweet novel, almost as nostalgic as some of Bradbury's; I have a sense there's some intended thematic point, but I'm not really sure what it might be, other than apparently perfect surfaces hiding very imperfect depths. There are a lot of things I'm really not sure about, about this book, but that's very plausibly me. Beautifully written, if kinda puzzling.

The Hatching by Ezekiel Boone

 

So, this is a book of apocalyptic fiction. The apocalypse here is kinda ludicrous, well past my own limits for suspension of disbelief; the writing otherwise is actually quite good: the pacing and the characterizations are excellently handled and acute, the authorial voice is just laden with neat turns of phrase, I kept reading well past the point where I'd given up on what the novel was trying to do because so much of the writing was so fun. This is Book One of a series, though, and the writing was not fun enough to make me want to read more.

Malice House by Megan Shepherd

 

This might be as quickly as I've bailed on a book in a while--not even twenty pages. At least four things wrong enough about reality that my suspension of disbelief came crashing to the metaphorical floor. The voice wasn't inspiring great confidence, either, all kinda short sentences with occasional fragments, but I might have been able to deal with that. Oh, well, yet another author to remember to avoid.

The Other Side of Night by Adam Hamdy

 

This isn't a crappy horror novel. It's mostly a bad science fiction novel disguised as a mediocre crime novel. It has the latter's addiction to twists and revelations instead of plot, and it has the former's gee-whiz attitude to the impossible. It's not a very good novel, it's too British for me to know if the characters or dialogue or setting hold up, but the prose itself is kinda stolid and occasionally clunky. The story itself kinda maunders around between various timelines, only settling down in the second half when the science fiction emerges from the shadows and things go wildly off the rails. I guess if I'd seen that Hamdy had ghostwritten for Patterson I'd have left the book on the library shelf. Oops and oh well, at least it wasn't so bad I didn't finish it.

The Place Where They Buried Your Heart by Christina Henry

 

It's so refreshing to read an actually good--really, really fucking good--horror novel. No hiding behind various "literary" authorial bullshit, just a horror novel that builds. It's a sort of almost generational haunted house novel, the house stands for nearly a century, the narrator lives through like twenty years, long enough that there's a real feel change when she transitions from writing about her memories of being a kid to writing about herself as an adult (and the sense her memories of things are shaping her narration of her childhood is real, without making her out to be a liar). The people in the novel feel like people, they might not be exactly like what you'd find in a working class, then gentrified neighborhood in Chicago, but they feel like people and that's what really matters. Henry's voice tends to the straightforward, there aren't any real flights of fancy, no straining toward something heightened, but it's solid and there are some nicely turned phrases and some well-realized dialogue. It's nice to see the inhumanity of the haunting (which is arguably something more than a haunting, but whatever) broken by very human emotions, a mix of what people would think of as good and bad but entirely human. A genuine delight to read.

The Pallbearer's Club by Paul Tremblay

 

Well. Almost two years ago I read a novel by Tremblay and thought it was really good stuff but there was a touch of PoMo that gave me pause. This novel is pretty much just that touch of PoMo, the novel being in the form of a memoir written by one character, with notes scribbled on it by another, the latter turns out to be something like a vampire, and she turns out to have destroyed the writer of the memoir entirely and in multiple ways. There, I've spared you the bother of struggling to read this distressingly boring novel, go and do something worthwhile with the time I've saved you.

The Devil Knows You're Dead by Lawrence Block

 

This turned out to be a clever and occasionally funny detective novel, with some reasonable twists and turns and suchlike along the way. Block could write funny with a distressingly casual ease, but he could also see things you might not have notices and phrase them in ways you might not have thought of--he could do that sort of cleverness without being exactly funny, and he did it well, and a lot, in this novel. I presume it's intended to be happening in the early 1990s, when it was written (I generally tend to presume that fiction is set when it's being written, unless there's a good reason to presume otherwise) and New York then was a somewhat grittier place, and many of the attitudes were really unfriendly--at least some of the words were (there's a transwoman who gets talked about in some kinda jarring ways to 2026 sensibilities, but she's always referred to as "she," which for 1993 is really progressive). The prose is sharp and sparkles like quartz, the characters are deeply believable. Really, really good, and it makes me wish the local libraries had more of Block's novels from the 1980s and 1990s as physical books, so I could read them.