It’s gothic, sort of, and there’s a decent kind of Charlotte Perkins Gilman feel to a secondary storyline later in the book, but overwhelmingly it feels like it’s a couple of structural edits short of a purpose. The novel is vaguely Lovecraftian in the way that terrible horrors are referenced (with shades of The Crucible, even) but never really developed. There’s ambience aplenty, but it doesn’t really do anything. I freely admit this interpretation probably coloured my approach, so when I finally got to grips with it, it didn’t seem anything like that. I’d heard this book referred to as a kind of folk horror thing: a little like a starched-collar The Wicker Man, perhaps. I’m reminded of Peter Carey’s Oscar and Lucinda, though I’m uncertain if that’s for any reason beyond the interplay of rigidity and emotion. Things happen and there seems to be no real reason for it, just a continual sense of muddy wandering and vague striving. Or, rather, that there wasn’t a great deal of narrative oomph going on. I can appreciate the artistry in the novel – the world is meticulously created – but I didn’t feel like a great deal happened. I’ve finished it, but I feel no closer to the characters inside it than I was when I began. I can’t figure whether I like it, beyond being faintly impressed with Perry’s hand at portraiture. This will only be a short review as I find myself in a quandary with this book.
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