As I’ve stated before: I will never, ever shut up about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn. Also, I’m reading all of the Harley Quinn works out-of-order. At first it wasn’t intentional, but now I’m reveling in it! It’s a weird sort of fun, this sort of fractured storytelling.
Frankly, I expected RED MEAT to be mostly filler material. Between reading the first and then fourth volume, I could see the progression of Harley and crew, but didn’t quite see how it could those volumes could fill six-to-twelve issues.
Amanda Conner & Jimmy Palmiotti proved me wrong. This is a fucking wild ride. While it doesn’t quite concentrate on Harley’s progression from villain to anti-hero or whatever you want to label her, it does surround her with a number of absolutely brazen, bat-shit-crazy circumstances that endlessly entertain.
For one: there’s the mayor and his assistant employing cannibals to eat the homeless. Then there’s also a Terminator-esque antagonist, sent back in time to kill Harley because, apparently she killed Batman in the future.
Yes. Killed Batman. In the future.
Also? This terminator? She wasn’t the first one sent back to kill Harley.
And that plotline is dropped like a fucking anvil and is never spoken of again, at least to my knowledge. (I’ll note once again: I have not read all of the oeuvre that consists of Harley Quinn, so I am probably wrong about this, but I really hope I am not.)
[UPDATE: I’m currently replaying the Arkham Trilogy and apparently that’s semi-canon, but not really? Either way, the fact that folks accept that Harley could kill Bats is pretty awesome, especially considering later storylines.]
Comics! God bless ‘em. There’s no other form that audiences accept this sort of lunacy from, and I fucking revel in it.
Traditionally for my birthday I go to a local bookstore and buy myself a mess of books. I didn’t do so this year because of reasons but last year I was floating down the very stacked aisles of Ravenswood Used Books and Elizabeth Strout’s AMY AND ISABELLE caught my eye.
Given that I loved OLIVE KITTERIDGE and THE BURGESS BOYS, I nabbed it, and it sat on my ‘to read’ shelf for about a year. I didn’t realize that it was Strout’s debut novel. All that mattered was it was penned by her, and she has a certain sensitivity and New England sensibility that is catnip to me.
I usually prefer to go into books blind, especially from authors that have penned works I appreciate but, for whatever reason, this time I read the back cover copy. I won’t quote it, but it gave the impression of a late 1960’s staid mother (Isabelle) pushing against a burgeoning teen daughter (Amy) leaning into a queer life.
I was gravely wrong. This is a work about how men abuse anyone they can.
AMY AND ISABELLE is a slice of life about living in a turning point of America, of women being in the workfield, of being mothers to daughters, of daughters taxing their mothers, and simply just trying to endure their hardships, to live the life they’re handed, the life handed down to them. I know that description sounds too vague, too nebulous, but I can’t describe it any other way.
Thirty pages in, I could already see Amy’s trajectory. Fifty pages in, I was telling myself: “You really should not be reading this. You know this hits too close to home for you.” One hundred pages in, I asked myself: “Why the fuck do you persist in reading this?” It came to a head around page 118. I was reading this one chapter on a bus after returning from a rather stressful cross-state trip. I read the words, read Strout detailing how the daughter Amy was taken advantage of, and my fingers curled, gnarled around the cover and pages. I tried to keep reading, but instead thrust it into my bag. If I were at home, reading it while rocking in my chair on the porch, I would have thrown it to the ground; not out of disgust, but because it cut too close to the quick.
It’s the mark of a great author that can recreate traumatic scenarios that, to others, may seem endearing, but also to those who have lived through these experiences, rather harrowing. That’s what Strout manages here, in a way I’ve never read before.
That said, I fucking hated it. I hated reliving it through her words.
With texts, you can sit with words. You can put the forward momentum on pause. If it’s a positive piece of prose, you can revel in it. If it’s a negative piece of prose, you can either beat yourself up about it, or curse the creator.
When you’re dealing with something that you wish you’d never read? You do not want to read further, but you can’t put the full piece on pause; the unwanted part resonates in your mind.
I kept going, just like I keep living.
Amy and Isabelle endure, just like the luckiest of us, but both are left haunted. This is a brutal gut-punch of a novel, something I was not expecting, something I didn’t want, but it resonates so loudly.
I write far too much about how artistic works emotionally impact me, I know, but I will never, ever apologize for it. That’s what works like AMY AND ISABELLE do; they affect those who feel seen, but also impart a worldview to those who haven’t lived those experiences, and to help placate those who have, even if they can’t forget.
NIGHT IN THE WOODS hits more than a little too close to home for me. This video game from developers Infinite Fall and Secret Lab may, at first blush, look like a cozy and cartoonish narrative-forward exploratory game, but the anthropomorphism and vibrant colors belie a dark tale of deterioration and dysfunction and self-examination.
You play as Mae Borowski, a twenty-year-old cat-like college dropout returning to the deteriorating mining town of Possum Springs, where her parents and high school friends still reside. There’s a darkness in her past, numerous disturbing incidents from her youth, and she’s seen as a blight that’s come back to haunt her dilapitated hometown. While her parents are supportive, they’re also slightly resentful given that Mae was ‘a miracle baby’ and that they scrimped and saved for her to be the first Borowski to head to college, Mae laid waste to that dream. They may end up losing their house due to Mae’s nature. She’s still perceived as a kid; she’s irresponsible and impulsive and selfish and she doesn’t take the world or herself seriously.
I find it hard not to identify with Mae. I, too, am a college dropout although — unlike Mae — I didn’t drop out early, but did so in my final year. Part of it was financial as I simply ran out of money, but part of it was also due to a lack of motivation. I was in film school and realized that while I love film and love setting up shots and positioning lights and breaking down scripts and analyzing and writing about film, I knew I was not fit for the hustle required to make it in the industry. So I abandoned that pursuit, got a low-level tech support job that paid well-enough for a twenty-something and I worked my way up to be a web developer, a position I’ve held for many, many years now.
Like Mae, I was what you would call a troubled youth. I acted out from a young age, which only increased with each and every birthday. There were a number of counselors, a lot of yelling, all sorts of destruction, run-ins with the law, etc. It got to the point where parents refused to allow their offspring to fraternize with me. I got involved with a lot of older folks who were very bad for me, and I was embroiled in more than a few situations that I was far too young for. Like Mae, I didn’t exactly lie to folks, but I knew how to hide matters. There were a lot of surreptitious trips to cities and places no one else knew about. While I could go on, I think you get the point.
To put it succinctly: I have never been invited to a high school reunion, and no extended family members attended our wedding.
I was a real selfish piece of shit, a black sheep, whereas Mae is a black cat.
However, like Mae, I still have supportive friends from my youth, and I still have close family, even if they still remember how fucking awful I was. Those were bridges I never managed to burn, thankfully.
NIGHT IN THE WOODS is an unflinching work and I will say: you do not have to have been a real piece of shit to identify with Mae. She’s smart, she’s quippy, and she has a very unique voice. She just hasn’t found her place yet, but it isn’t Possum Springs — despite the fact that it’s the only place that begrudgingly accepts her.
While NIGHT IN THE WOODS tries to be something more than just an interactive side-scrolling novel — there are a few mini-games, including a Zelda-ish dungeon game and a number of rhythm games that are amazing riffs on JOY DIVISION’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ and BAUHAUS’ ‘Bela Legosi’s Dead’, they’re more annoying than engaging. They’re often too fiddly, even if it’s supposed to encapusate Mae blindly playing bass to songs she doesn’t know. There’s an art to controller-based rhythm games that feels lost here, and leaves one feeling frustrated. (That may be appropriate for Mae as a character, but it also resulted in a lot of swearing on my behalf.)
I initially played NIGHT IN THE WOODS shortly after it was released, six years ago. I decided to pick it up and replay it recently because I remember it as being a low-friction game with great art design, a lot of unique personalities, voices, and witty banter.
What I forgot was that it’s ultimately a tale about an existential crisis and psychotic break.
There are a number of hints and allusions to Mae’s actions and behavior before she headed off to college, but it takes a while until Mae ultimately confronts matters and, while I will not spoil them, this tale takes a number of dark turns, culminating with Mae having to reckon with her past, her skewed mind, and her fundamental disassociation with, well, life.
So, despite appearances, it’s a far more soulful work than one might expect. It’s a tale of societal expectations, of guilt, of reckoning, of family, of friends. This is not a lark; it’s a deep dive into how one can fucking completely mess up their life and still manage to survive, but feel endlessly haunted.
Reposting this, as I believe it was my first exposure to the recently departed William Friedkin, but not my last. It’s not a great episode, but I will never forget it, just like I’ll never forget Friedkin’s work. The man knew what he wanted to do, and he was unwilling to compromise, and he will be missed.
Whenever I travel, I always make it a point to pop into a bookstore — hopefully a used bookstore — and buy a paperback. It’s the perfect souvenir: they’re light (hence paperback versus hardcover) so you don’t have to worry about it taking too much space or weight, and I always remember when and where I buy a book. Simply looking at the cover will cause me to reminisce. I also have the added bonus of …well, a new-to-me book. Sometime it’s even signed!
Cookie Boyle’s debut novel ENTITLED encapsulates the feeling of discovering the world through books and travel. At first blush it reads like ‘Toy Story for book nerds’ and, well, yes, that’s a succinct pitch, but ENTITLED is so much more than that.
ENTITLED does anthropomorphize books. They can talk to each — taking on the affect and disposition of authorial intent — and they even have very limited mobility. They can toss themselves off of shelves and unfurl their pages. When read, they actively impart their words upon their Reader. (Please note: I’ll be using ENTITLED’s use of capitalizing labels from here on, including: Book, Reader, Writer, and Author.)
There’s also a sex scene between two books. That’s a sentence I never expected to write, but the scene is pretty fantastic, as is the emotional fallout.
The protagonist of ENTITLED is a book entitled THE SERENDIPITY OF SNOW (SNOW from here on out), penned by Tessa MacDonald. It’s about a 19th century Minnesotan woman who escapes her abusive husband and embarks on a new independent life.
As you might imagine, this copy of SNOW that seems to go by she/her — it seems the books go by the pronouns of their author or protagonist, although that part is left rather nebulous — traverses the world. She first starts in a bookstore in San Francisco, then is purchased by a Parisian woman who wants to improve her English language skills because she’s fallen for an American while visiting California for a few months. Then SNOW ends up in the hands of as Londoner — trust me, these locales are on the cover so I’m not spoiling anything — who is an aspiring writer, and then is inspired by SNOW (and other circumstances) to push SNOW forward.
I’ll refrain from describing the rest, but I will note that as someone who absolutely loves overanalyzing adaptations, this book hit every one of my quadrants.
ENTITLED easily could have coasted along on its premise alone — just books talking to other books through a myriad of locales, hoping to find a home or, better yet, to finally meet their Author (yes, their God/Goddess) but instead it’s an endearing work to all of those who literally feel for books. Instead, it’s a surprisingly uplifting epic that, while certainly indulges the literary nerds out there, is also emotionally resonant for those who aren’t as fond of physically handling or cracking open books.
As the hoary adage goes: do not judge a book by its cover. Give each book a chance.
Addendum
I’ll note that my wife bought this for me, rightfully thinking that it seemed like it fit in my wheelhouse. She also bought me a used copy, without realizing the significance of that, of how SNOW travels from hand-to-hand, shelf-to-shelf, as we as people all often do with relationships.
The books in this world fear being scarred, either by dog drool or teeth, by coffee stains, by wine or water. They feel bruised when tossed into a satchel or when dropped from a table. Given that I was reading a used copy, this affectation made me hurt a bit, as I’ve always taken pride in having well-worn books. To me, a well-worn book means a well-appreciated work. A paperback with a pristine spine essentially declares that it’s a book unread, but yet in this world, the action of breaking the spine to read further is painful to them, and not in a pleasant way.
The dichotomy of wanting to be read, but not being damaged by being read, is a fascinating facet of this novel to me, and one that I don’t feel it quite reconciles. Perhaps upon re-reading it, I’ll discover more. (Although that’d require more bending of the spine, sadly.)
Yet again, I will never, ever shut up about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn, and this Conner & Palmiotti volume (number five, for those keeping score at home) is one of the best of I’ve theirs I’ve read. (I’ll note: I haven’t even come close to reading their oeuvre, much less the entire panopticon of other Harley works, so please bear that in mind.)
I’ll admit: I have no fucking clue where Harley and Ive are relationship-wise in this series. Ivy seems to be very invested in Harley, but Harley is off fucking Madame Macabre’s son and Ivy is visibly very happy for her. They talk to each other like a couple, but apparently they aren’t? Maybe I’m dumb at interpreting this — wouldn’t be the first time — but it’s hard to tell solely based on this volume.
Yeah, I probably shouldn’t have skipped volumes number two and three — inevitably I’ll circle back — but it’s more fun this way.
All joking aside, this volume is not flip. I will not spoil anything but it goes dark and Harley goes through a lot of shit. Tonally, VOTE HARLEY departs quite a bit from the Conner & Palmiotti Harley works I’ve previously read. Actions have significant consequences, Harley tries to rectify them and, in traditional Harley manner, it falls apart.
The six issues of this arc takes turn after turn, culminating in a wild fourth-wall breaking scenario that I did not see coming, and it was utterly delightful while also being quite disturbing.
While I always miss Connor’s pencil work, I always welcome John Timm. His renditions are always vibrantly expressive, focusing more on eyes and grins than T&A, although his fluid body language also helps to amplify some of this volume’s heavier moments.
I don’t want to say that this is a great introduction to Harley — after all, it is the fifth volume of a long-running character — and while it’s far more somber than we normally see Harley, it’s a very well-crafted story that, while not exactly self-contained, also isn’t inaccessible for newer readers. It’s a hell of a ride, albeit probably not one Harley wanted to take.
It’s hard to imagine now, but back in the day Roseanne Barr was considered a progressive blue-collar feminist, first through her brusque stand-up, then with her heralded sitcom ROSEANNE (who had now-disgraced self-proclaimed feminist Joss Whedon in the writer’s room).
Despite being a pre-teen, I absolutely loved ROSEANNE. Barr encapsulated the type of outspoken, driven woman that reminded me of my own mother, who willfully worked whichever job she could get because she wanted to give back and keep her hands busy. She was restless and smart and witty and the Barr in ROSEANNE mirrored that same sort of mentality and cultural ethic.
So, it wasn’t terribly surprising that she was cast as Ruth, the unruly protagonist of the film adaptation of THE LIFE AND LOVES OF A SHE-DEVIL. It was not hard to imagine Barr inhabiting the role of a scorned woman, a woman who undermines positions of authority with the intent to shoehorn her way into a patriarchal society because, well, she did all of that.
However, there’s one major flaw with this adaptation, and that is: Barr is not tall.
As noted in my prior write-up, Ruth’s height is the predominant facet to her being an unwelcome woman in society. To the extent that she goes through major elective surgery to change from being 6’ 2” to around 5’ 8”, which takes the work from being a piece about a scorned and envious woman to outright body horror due to what she is willing to endure to mould herself.
At this point in time in Barr’s career, she was very well-known for being short and stout. The stout fits the Ruth character. Short? No, not at all.
I’m getting ahead of myself, especially if you haven’t read my prior write-up about the source material.
SHE-DEVIL comes across as a simple vengeance tale: Ruth, a plain woman, discovers that her accountant husband — and parent to her son and daughter — is cheating on her with Anne, his romance author client. Ruth decides to burn her life, and their lives, to the very ground.
For the most part, SHE-DEVIL is yet another film that: if you watch it before consuming the source material, it comes across as brilliant. Yes, it casts aside the most extreme acts of the novel, but otherwise its fidelity to Weldon’s book is quite astounding. They could have just lifted the concept — scorned, vengeful woman wrecking the lives of those she feels have wronged her — and ran with it, but instead they recreate most of the non-body horror scenes, almost word-for-word, and it plays! It works!
Part of that is simply because of the cast. I previously harped on Roseanne Barr’s involvement, but motherfucking Meryl Streep plays Anne, the romance author, during Streep’s astounding run of playing absolutely independent but also unwelcome women. Ed Begley Jr. is Bob, Ruth’s accountant husband and, while on paper you wouldn’t think that Begley Jr. could pull off being a philandering, sexy debonair — he usually just plays a mostly innocuous schmuck — it actually works here. A lot of it has to do with his robust and glorious hair styling, but he also conveys a charismatic and alluring type of sleaze.
I honestly didn’t know he had it in him.
Cinematically, it’s rather straight-forward and not handled with much grace, but the main attraction here is the script — mostly cribbed from the novel — and the performances. If nothing else, it feels like it was greenlit to capitalize on the sensation of recent accessible-but-camp films, such as John Waters’ HAIRSPRAY, films that portray women taking charge of their lives through any means possible, but in a darkly comic way.
That means circling back to what isn’t in the film: the body horror. A keen eye will notice that Barr’s Ruth does take advantage of some physical alterations, but nothing so severe as in the novel. Essentially, all of that is dropped, which severely neuters the work.
However, even without that facet, it’s still a powerful feminist film. If you don’t believe me, believe the illustrious and erudite Criterion Channel, which routinely plays it. It is a smart film, however, if you know what it could have been, you might be slightly disappointed.
It was my birthday recently and I traditionally treat myself to some new books. This year, I dropped into my local comic book store — I’m lucky enough to live in an area that still has one within walking distance: Alleycat Comics and they’re fantastic — and I perused the Harley Quinn section because, yet again, I will never, ever shut up about Harley Fuckin’ Quinn. (So much so that I’m thinking of making this a weekly feature, as there’s certainly enough Harley Quinn material out there.)
They had re-stocked Conner & Pamiotti’s Vol. 2 and Vol. 3 — which I have yet to read — but then I saw it, something I didn’t even know existed. (I’ll note that’s not out of laziness or a lack of research, but simple willful ignorance as I like to have some small surprises in my life.)
HARLEY QUINN AND THE BIRDS OF PREY: THE HUNT FOR HARLEY.
THE HUNT FOR HARLEY is from spouses Amanda Conner and Jimmy Palmiotti, who penned and Conner often illustrated Harley Quinn’s iconic run, the run that let Harley be her best self. (Well, at least a better self.)
I’ll note: their Harley, while being very close to the recent animated Harley I hold near-and-dear, is not my favorite Harley, but it is a very quality Harley and my favorite Harley wouldn’t exist without them. Yay, comics!
This collection consists of four issues of the DC Black Label mini-series, and it is a gorgeous collection. Super-luxurious paper stock, brilliant and vivid colors, and it’s gleefully over-sized. I am always a sucker for magazine-sized graphic novels. I felt like I was reading an EIGHTBALL collection as opposed to what’s normally a substandard comic trade paperback.
If you aren’t familiar with DC’s Black Label, it’s yet another attempt to recreate DC’s Vertigo imprint; it’s ‘for mature readers’ and leans heavily on pre-established characters. In the case of Harley, it means she’s not Harley Frickin’ Quinn or $#@!ing Harley Quinn, but Harley Fuckin’ Quinn, and there are even more beaver jokes. (So many beaver jokes.) Also, a lot of bloodshed. (So much blood.)
This is Conner & Palmiotti unbridled, and it’s glorious. Conner is (mostly) back on artist duty and it’s a comfort to see her Harley renditions. However, the real pleasure of this series is the character work and the humor. Conner & Palmiotti leaned on a lot of innuendo in their initial Quinn run to barely be PG-13 smut; there was a lot of tip-toeing around language and acts, but they were very good at doing so in a winking manner.
They no longer have to hold back with THE HUNT FOR HARLEY.
What I really appreciate about Conner & Palmiotti is how they delicately thread the needle between fun lewd and outrageous lewd, without ever actually being distasteful or exploitative. Are they mostly portraying deviant folks on the outskirts of society that don’t feel bound by societal norms? Yes. Do they still portray them as humans, and Conner do so in a way that is visually striking and isn’t just for the male gaze? Yes.
Anyway. I’m getting sidetracked.
THE HUNT FOR HARLEY reads like an Earth-2 version of the film BIRDS OF PREY. (I’d normally say that HUNT is the Earth-1, but the film BIRDS OF PREY predates it.)
(Yet again, I’ll note: I’m still working my way through all of the Harley Quinn stuff, so please don’t fault me for not knowing the entire history. There is a lot of Quinn material out there!)
The gang’s all here: Montoya, Huntress, Cassandra Cain, and Harley is — as noted in the title — being hunted. Cassandra Cain and Montoya are …different. Costumes and backgrounds do not necessarily match. However, at the heart of it of the tale is what I know and love as Quinn and her interactions with The Birds of Prey.
It’s a sparky lark and relentless fun. My only quibble is: I’m so fucking sick of the Joker showing up in Quinn’s tales, especially to re-introduce her trauma. (A brief aside: that’s one facet I love about HARLEY QUINN: THE ANIMATED SERIES; they quickly dispense with him being Harley’s edgelord. While he does pop up most unexpectedly in Season Three, he is, well, I won’t spoil matters but he is radically different.)
THE HUNT FOR HARLEY is a spectacular and mostly self-contained work that I would recommend to anyone of age to read it. (Or, hell, anyone who isn’t of age because youths will discover this stuff on their own.) Everyone is firing on all pistons and it’s such a propulsive, while also heartfelt, work.
If you’d like to read Conner’s thoughts on the work, I highly suggest this BUST interview!
My wife and I have a running joke — or as she puts it: a running conversation — that we’ve maintained for years. To set up the joke: I’m a 6’ 2” male-presenting person, which is practically the perfect height for someone like me. It’s tall enough that most people will refer to you as ‘tall’. People often have to look up at you to hold a conversation. On the other hand, you aren’t so tall that you’re bumping your head on lighting fixtures or doorways. Like I said: the perfect height.
My wife, while taller than average, is shorter than I am. However, she mock-refuses to embrace the fact, even when I have to reach for something on her behalf. She insists that she is so tall, taller than I am. Truth be told, in many ways she is, just not physically.
It’s not a good joke, but like with many relationships, it’s part of our history and something we find to be cute (even if no one else does).
The protagonist in Fay Weldon’s THE LIFE AND LOVES OF A SHE-DEVIL (SHE-DEVIL going forward) is Ruth, a 6’ 2” woman who, given the nature of a world built around men, does not fit because the world expects women to adhere to a specific mould. She is deemed too tall, too gangly, too plain — she has four moles on her face, three of which sprout hairs — and is simply too much for society to bear. She is married to an accountant named Bobbo, to whom she births two children — Nicola and Andy — after which Bobbo quickly loses interest in Ruth, ultimately leaving her for one of his clients: Anne Fisher, a romance novelist, who literally is a beacon of light for Bobbo, living in a repurposed lighthouse.
Upon being scorned, Ruth sheds her house, her children, and begins a new life that includes ruining the people and systems that brought her misery, all while literally reshaping herself into the physical shape that society will embrace.
While it’s tempting to consider SHE-DEVIL as a vengeance tale — and yes, there’s definitely a lot of vengeance being sown here — Weldon noted that it’s more of a tale of envy. That much is undeniable, as Ruth uses her wiles and smarts and coercive abilities to shine a light on male oppressors, corrupting them while also using them to turn herself into the visage of someone who will be embraced by a patriarchal society, even if it means enduring endless indignities, pain, and suffering to become the image of someone the world accepts.
Yes, there’s that undercurrent of envy, of wanting to be the perfect woman who can get by without friction in a man’s world, but it’s executed in a way that subverts each-and-every column of said world; from religion to science to the medicinal. Ruth considers herself a she-devil — a fallen woman — and while men would consider her to be a villain, she’s doing a hero’s work, even as she castigates herself to do so, to an extent that becomes body horror.
SHE-DEVIL is a very complex work, and I’m somewhat shocked that it’s mostly been forgotten. (I’ll note that there was a BBC mini-series adaptation of it in the mid-80s, and there was a late-80s film version starring Roseanne Barr — both of which I’ll address in future posts.)
Sadly, Weldon passed away earlier this year at the age of 91, leaving behind a great number of feminist novels, so if you want to remember her in the best way possible, pick up a few and start turning those pages.
Rachel was accidentally poisoned by her own hand as part of her botanic poison research and using herself as a test subject. Consequently, her death leads to the dissolution of her research department, including protagonist Nell Barber. Nell becomes obsessed with continuing Rachel’s research, which includes cultivating monkshood and castor beans, while still being infatuated with her mentor Joan, an older, prickly academic married to a bloated, gregarious man named Barry. When Nell isn’t spending her time mooning over her research or Joan, she hangs with her beautiful best friend Misha and shittalks about her gorgeous-but-vapid ex Tom.
In other words: There’s a lot of academic incest going on.
Rebecca Dinerstein Knight’s second novel HEX examines the fallout of Rachel’s death with brilliantly inventive prose that ducks and weaves through the lives of five individuals as they all desperately flail around seeking some sort of comfort, if not in their studies, then in each others arms.
It is very tempting to call HEX a botanist version of THE SECRET GARDEN as the two share a lot in common: both circle around a dead body, academia, and a severely dysfunctional group of high-minded adult students and scholars that are absolutely the worst for each other. However, unlike THE SECRET GARDEN, you don’t get the same sense of family camaraderie. From the get-go, there’s an immediate friction between everyone, and there’s a lot of toxic interplay and back-biting.
Initially I balked at writing this recommendation, solely because Dinerstein Knight’s prose is so inventive, so evocative that her words easily trounce whichever words I would utilize to pen this piece. She’s that good, and any attempts on my behalf to try to convey that would be — well, are — middling at best.
However, it’s too good to refrain from recommending as the construction of Nell’s interior thoughts are so delicious, and the tension between their fraught clique is so familiar but also very heightened, and the slow-burn is expertly doled out. It’s a wild ride, and one worth signing up for.
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