Book Review: The Sense of an Ending

Title: The Sense of an Ending

Author: Julian Barnes
Year Published: 2011

Genre: Contemporary drama

The Sense of an Ending is refreshing and pompous all at once. If you’re the type who enjoys reading about white upper middle class British boys doing their thang, then this is the book for you.

It’s a short novel, in which a middle-aged Tony Webster reminisces about his school chums, his first girlfriend, and his life beyond. The writing is elegant and precise. Through Tony, the author explores the nature of memory and considers how people live their lives. I felt a certain tenderness – a sort of raw delicacy – in the way this was done, and I really enjoyed reading it. There’s something universal about the dilemmas conveyed, and if you’ve lived an ‘ordinary’ life, it is not difficult to see yourself in Tony – a man who has merely let his life happen to him.

And then, the plot. This is one of those rare books where I would have preferred for there to be less of a plot and more meandering ruminations on life. The whole ‘mystery’ of Veronica felt to me somewhat soap opera-esque. While the resolution is ambiguous and points to Tony’s unreliability (as a narrator and as a rememberer), this whole facet of the book seemed kind of clumsy when compared to the grace of the rest. But then again, maybe like Tony, I just don’t get it.

Perhaps this is why I found it easy to put the book down and not pick it up again, despite liking it. While some may read The Sense of an Ending for the mystery and its ‘literary’ appeal, I found more reward in the beauty of its language, and its ability to prompt us to reflect upon ourselves.

Alex’s Rating: 4/5

Book Review: Empire Falls

Title: Empire Falls

Author: Richard Russo
Year Published: 2001

Genre: Contemporary drama

Empire Falls chronicles life in what used to be a thriving industrial community in Maine, USA. The Whiting family, who were the drivers of Empire Falls’ economy, have downsized their operations over time, leaving the town in a state of decay. Even so, Empire Falls’ inhabitants remain hopeful that someday, a benefactor will come to reinvigorate the empty mills and restore the town to its former glory.

Our hero, as it were, is one Miles Roby; though he was once among the brightest boys in town, he has somehow ended up flipping burgers at the Empire Grill for the last twenty odd years. At the start of the book, we discover that his wife has left him, and relying on a promise, Miles endures his lot with the hope that one day, the last Mrs Whiting will hand him ownership of the Grill.

Empire Falls paints a poignant picture of small-town life. Each character has their own values, motivations and personalities. Though we may despise some of them, Russo draws each one with great compassion, and we see them all as human. It’s remarkable how realistic they all feel.

Like the town itself, Empire Falls’ inhabitants seem mired in the past, and in their mindsets and obligations. Faced with a myriad of characters trapped in their own lives, you can’t help but reflect upon yours. What are you doing with your life? What do you want to do? What should you be doing? How can you escape? Should you? There are no easy answers to these questions, and considering them is both difficult and soothing at the same time. The very ordinariness of these dilemmas is what makes the book so relatable and so confronting at the same time.

If I have anything to criticise here, I suppose it’d be the final act. The ‘plot twist’ was not particularly surprising, and the slow build of tension within Miles, and its eventual eruption, was almost deliciously satisfying. The sudden ‘event’ and the subsequent ending both seemed abrupt. I don’t know what I expected, but I guess I wanted something more.

While what I’ve described – a case study in stagnation, with no obvious solutions – may seem depressing, what does come through it all is, somehow, a sense of hope. Additionally, a healthy dose of humour suffuses the book and Russo describes the inhabitants of the town with a generosity of spirit. Empire Falls is an acute study of human nature, written without pretension, in plain and gentle language. Highly recommended.

Alex’s Rating: 4.5/5

Book Review: The Goldfinch

Title: The Goldfinch

Author: Donna Tartt
Year Published: 2013

Genre: Drama, Crime, Contemporary fiction

Recently named winner of the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for fiction, The Goldfinch tells the story of Theo Decker, a boy who survives the bombing that takes his mother’s life. In the chaos that follows, Theo is taken in by a posh New York family and, well, suffice to say that a painting of a bird is involved, and things don’t get easier for our teenaged hero.

Tartt has a gift for language and detail – based on her descriptions, I find myself wanting to see New York in real life. From the very beginning, when Theo and his mother are caught in the rain through to Theo’s time spent alone in Hobie’s furniture store, you can almost believe you’re there with Theo himself. Theo’s remembered places and experiences are both dreamlike and solid at the same time; they feel real even when they’re unrealistic. Despite its heft, the book is easy to read; there’s a cushiony feel about the prose that makes it easy to sink in to; it’s almost comforting in a way.

Any yet, there were many times I found it hard to immerse myself in his story. Why? Multiple reasons, really. Perhaps dumbest of all is the whole business with the timeline. When is the book set? It’s not clear. Such a simple matter, and yet so irritating. We start with Theo as a grown man in Amsterdam before the narrative segues into his childhood. I had thought that this meant that the Amsterdam stuff was happening present-day-ish, but then aspects of Theo’s adolescence felt too modern. Instead of concentrating on Theo’s story, I found myself distracted by thoughts like: So the accident happened after 9-11? Is the Amsterdam stuff happening in the future then? When did Unleashed come out? Isn’t that kind of text-speak outdated? Why is there old digital clock font in a modern-day text? What?

Similarly, other aspects of the writing threw me out of the story. Particularly during the accident at the start, I wasn’t sure if Theo was retelling a story or if we were living it with him in real-time. This might seem trivial, but it does change how you interpret events. Another issue I had was with Theo himself. He’s meant to be a teenage boy, but there’s something about his observations that make him sound like a mature, well-to-do white woman. It’s more than precociousness (and boy is he precocious); I mean, improbable art history expertise aside, what thirteen-year-old boy recognises when someone is dressed in Valentino and knows that the lipgloss stick thingy is a “wand”? It would seem that this book was written by someone even more out of touch with today’s youth than yours truly, and that’s a worrying thought.

Another aspect of Theo that felt unrealistic to me was his ordeal with drugs. I can’t place my finger on it, but something about the casual but meticulous way things are described feels very researched and calculated. It’s as if the author’s trawled Internet forums about substance abuse and included her findings in the book as something ~edgy. Now, I know nothing about the author and her history. For all I know, she’s had experience dealing with substance abuse and knows what she’s on about. As a reader, however, something about it just did not feel genuine.

So too did the parts of the book dealing with art and art appreciation. The detailed and technical art discussions sounded like excerpts from someone’s essay rather than actual thoughts or experiences of actual people. Unfortunately, I got the impression that the author wanted to show off how cultured she was – which is sad, as I suppose the intent here was to inspire.

Other than the style, I also found the plot and characters a little unsatisfying. I am fine with the whole concept of this being one of those direction-less, that’s-how-life-is sort of books, but what I did not expect was for the narrative to jump from setting to setting and genre to genre. On the one hand this was exciting. You got new characters and drama and action and humour and a bildungsroman crime caper all in one – the book was never boring. On the other hand, it was also frustrating. Every time I thought the author was going to go deeper into a relationship or situation, things moved sideways instead. As a corollary, many of the characters never rise far above their stereotypes.

I’ve complained a lot, but a lot of this comes from how good the book is. I was so captivated by Theo’s experience that it became really noticeable when things felt unnatural and wrong. And here, I guess, I come to the controversy that is the ending. Feel free to skip this paragraph now, but I don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to say that there is no ending. In the last chapter, Theo engages in some navel-gazing that does nothing to wrap up the plot. To me it felt like a cop out. It’s as if the author couldn’t or wouldn’t decide how she wanted things to go, so they didn’t go anywhere at all. Instead, we get a discussion on the book’s ~themes~. The worst part of this is that Theo’s undergraduate introspective philosomaphising isn’t even riveting, though I may have been blinded by anger at this point. The words sound pretty though.

The Goldfinch is a richly detailed account of one troubled boy’s life, tenderly and lovingly drawn. However, I find it hard to recommend: it annoyed me too much with its pretentiousness, its implausibility and its failure to provide narrative closure. In short, The Goldfinch a good book, but it’s not great, and you can probably find something better. Then again, what’s my opinion worth? There’s only one Pulitzer winner here and it sure as hell ain’t me.

Alex’s Rating: 3/5

Book Review: Switch Bitch

Title: Switch Bitch

Author: Roald Dahl
Year Published: 1974
Genre: Short stories, Erotic humour

Dark, funny and always bizarre, Roald Dahl’s short stories usually climax in some sort of terrifying, karmic twist. Switch Bitch is a collection for four such tales, where sex is the word of the day and the word of the day is sex.

In ‘The Visitor’, we are introduced to Uncle Oswald, a pompous, hedonistic womanizer who finds himself stranded in the Sinai Desert. He is rescued by the wealthy Mr Aziz, who takes Oswald to his desert palace where temptation awaits in the form of Aziz’s wife and daughter. The story begins a little slowly, but the atmosphere – the sense of entrapment – and Oswald’s morally dubious character are built to wonderful effect. By the end of it all you’re not sure whether to feel bad for the poor bastard, though you’ll definitely be amused at his expense.

Next comes ‘The Great Switcheroo’, wherein our narrator fancies sleeping with his neighbour’s wife. A plot is hatched: each man learns the other’s “routines” so that they can impersonate one another and swap wives for a night. The ins and outs of this horrible plan are carefully detailed and the tension is built up masterfully. Mr Horrible Husband’s comeuppance proves to be very satisfying. Serves him right.

The third tale, ‘The Last Act’, was my least favourite. It tells the story of Anna as she deals with the loss of her beloved husband. Unlike the protagonists of the other tales, Anna seems like a genuinely sweet person – or at least someone who isn’t an intentional asshole – and her fate just feels depressing. Without the bite of ‘justice’, this story comes across as more dark than darkly funny. Further, it lacks the hook of a high-concept premise and is considerably less exciting, with the story feeling directionless for the most part. For these reasons, ‘The Last Act’ doesn’t quite fit with the rest of the collection and creates a bit of mood whiplash.

In ‘Bitch’, we have another of Uncle Oswald’s adventures. This was perhaps my favourite story. The premise is certainly novel: a scientist invents a perfume that fills men with uncontrollable lust. The development, testing and eventual ‘use’ of this dangerous substance are detailed meticulously, with the scientific jargon adding to the realism and hence the suspense. It’s (relatively) fast-paced, action-filled and light-hearted compared to the other stories. To me, it was also the funniest of the lot.

If you only know Dahl as a children’s author (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda, Fantastic Mr Fox and so on), a collection like this might take some adjusting to. If you’re worried about ruining your childhood, know at least that the sex scenes aren’t explicit. The raunchiest of them happens in ‘Bitch’ and that one is full of hyperbole; generally, the sex scenes serve to humour rather than titillate. Know also that sex isn’t exactly the key feature of all these stories, but rather, more of an excuse of a theme to justify bringing these stories together. Both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, these stories were first published in Playboy. So there you go.

Dahl’s trademark wicked, twisted humour are present in all four tales, which are also fun to read for the puzzle-solving aspect of their characters’ conundrums. Tense and tightly plotted, each story is easily read in one sitting. There’s a somewhat ponderous yet comfortable feel to the writing style here – necessarily different from Dahl’s children’s books – which may factor into your enjoyment of these stories. It took me a while to get into ‘The Visitor’, for example, since it started off so slowly.

A further warning: these stories were written in the 60s, and they do feel a little dated (wives are synonymous with housewives, for example). That said, I still found them incredibly readable. Recommended for someone appreciative of dirty jokes and after a quick, clever, twisty read.

Alex’s Rating: 4/5 

Book Review: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

Title: Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

Author: Jeanette Winterson

Year Published: 1985

Genre: Contemporary fiction, Lesbian fiction, Bildungsroman

The 1991 Introduction to Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit describes the novel as experimental, threatening and comforting all at once. The book is said to offer “a complicated narrative structure disguised as a simple one”. It “exposes the sanctity of family life as something of a sham; it illustrates by example that what the church calls love is actually psychosis and it dares to suggest that what makes life difficult for homosexuals is not their perversity but other people’s. Worse, it does these things with such humour and lightness that those disposed not to agree find that they do.” The Introduction also tells us that “[i]n structure and in style and in content Oranges was unlike any other novel” and that its story “has broken down many more barriers than it has reinforced.”

Oh, and did you know? The Introduction was written by the author herself.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, she may very well be right about all of these things, but there’s still something off-putting about it all – she brings to mind that guy you know who spouts his opinions as fact and worse, is somehow always right. My impression of the author, from reading the Introduction, was one of great arrogance. Sadly, this impression was to colour my subsequent reading of the book.

That said, I started off liking Oranges a lot. It’s a semi-autobiographical account of the author’s upbringing in a fiercely evangelical Pentecostal family in the UK. The narrator Jeanette has been adopted because her mother wishes to dedicate a child to God, meaning that Jeanette is essentially raised to become a missionary. Her childhood exposes her to her deeply religious mother, her mother’s friends and enemies, and the beliefs of her church. The author has a light touch with her words, using clear language – sorry, that is to say, a “beguilingly straight-forward syntax” – which gives a real child-like innocence and freshness to the book. There’s a quirkiness and humour that touches everything as well – for example, her mother’s vendetta against Next Door, the episode where Jeanette goes deaf and everyone thinks she’s filled with “the Spirit”, and Jeanette’s confusion at her teacher’s failure to appreciate her craft project, which involves cross-stitching the words “THE SUMMER IS ENDED AND WE ARE NOT YET SAVED.”

About halfway through the story, the narrator reveals herself to be a lesbian. Since I’d heard this novel described as “that orange lesbian book”, I wasn’t surprised; what did surprise me was how suddenly it came about. Her childhood is pretty much asexual then bam, she’s attracted to the ladies. That fact that 1) homosexuality is mentioned and 2) the cast is mostly female (indeed, Jeanette’s father is almost a nonentity) doesn’t count as foreshadowing, not really. When her sexuality emerges, Jeanette doesn’t even question it. She accepts her “Unnatural Passions” pretty easily and only shows confusion and anger when, surprise, surprise, the people at her church do not approve. The way it’s written is in character, I suppose, but I’d expected a little internal conflict or reflection at least, given her religion and all. Whatever the case, it doesn’t happen.

As the book goes on, it veers a bit into magic realism with the appearance of an orange demon. I found this a bit jarring and unnecessary, almost as if it had been put in for quirkiness’ sake. The book also incorporates within it various asides and allegories which carry a distinct fairy-tale mood. I found this charming at first, but over time, they increased in both frequency and abstraction. The chapter ‘Deuteronomy’ is just the author philisomaphising on the nature of history. I found it all a bit excessive and the further I read, the more I was reminded of the Introduction. There’s so much ~symbolism~ (with passages reflecting on themes like perfection, change and so on) that the latter part of the book reeks of self-indulgent literary pomposity. The high (low?) point for me comes on p110, with these profound words:

It is the nature of stone to convert bone.
At one time or another there will be a choice: you or the wall.
Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
The City of Lost Chances is full of those who chose the wall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

At this point, I had to resist the urge to throw the book across the room.

I mean, this sort of thing might be your cup of tea, and more power to you. It certainly isn’t mine. For me, the value added by these sorts of passages is but a candle to the giant sun of the author’s ego that shines through the same. Perhaps things would have been different if I’d never read the Introduction, but I’ll never know. As it is, it feels like the author added these bits chiefly to show how intellectually enlightened she is. The story could have easily worked without them. And frankly, for a novel with “interests [that] are anti-linear” that’s meant to be “read in spirals”, I didn’t find the structure all that amazing (it’s pretty much chronological with allegorical asides inserted) – nor was it particularly groundbreaking: there are plenty of modernist novels that have weirder/awesomer timeline/point-of-view shenanigans going on. To all those kids who have to analyse this for school: my heart goes out to you poor sods, it really does.

As for what remains of the actual story, well, we see Jeanette dealing with the fallout that comes from her lesbianism being revealed. I’m not sure if she becomes more unlikeable because she actually does unlikeable things (especially with her bitterness towards her ‘first love’), or because I was biased against her due to all the heavy-handed symbolism in the narrative. The book ends somewhat abruptly and I would have liked to see a more rounded finish. This is not to say there has to be a resolution as such, but the way it’s written feels like it was cut off partway through a chapter. Then again, maybe I just failed to appreciate the “spiral narrative” of the book.

I cannot fault the writing; I really enjoyed the style, which was simple and elegant with a pleasing rhythm. I also enjoyed the story of Jeanette’s life, with its humour and quirks and its observations on the church. It was engaging and fun, with a real sense of warmth. After a while though, the symbolic crap started to cloud over everything else, and having read the Introduction, my impression wasn’t so much “Woah mind blown! Deep author is deep!” as it was “Wow, can you get any more pretentious?”.

Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit is indeed a threatening novel. If you happen to be in the same room as me while I’m reading it, you must accept the implicit threat of bodily harm caused by my throwing of the book. Don’t worry too much though, it’s less than two hundred pages and I have weak arms. And more likely than not, I won’t be throwing it – as I said, it’s a mostly enjoyable read.

Alex’s Rating: 3.5/5

Book Review: Cat's Eye

Title: Cat’s Eye

Author: Margaret Atwood

Year Published: 1989

Genre: General and literary fiction, Contemporary drama

Elaine Risley returns to Toronto for a retrospective of her paintings. As she navigates her way through the city, she ruminates on her past – from her carefree childhood and tortuous experiences at school through to her adult life as an artist. Cat’s Eye is the sort of story where it’s less about what happens next and more about immersing yourself into the memories of the narrator, experiencing, for a while, life through the eyes of another.

Elaine’s early childhood evokes both joy and melancholy. It’s an almost idyllic time, where the Risley family travel around WWII-era Canada and most of Elaine’s time is spent running and playing in the woods with her brother Stephen. However, there is a pall over the whole proceedings, for we know it won’t last.

Elaine’s troubles begin when the family settle in Toronto. Introduced to the world of little girls, she finds herself partaking in their rituals and eventually becomes a victim of bullying. The author captures very well that particular brand of nastiness that can come from young girls, which makes this portion of the book especially painful to read. It’s realistic, distressing, and potentially triggering for those who have undergone similar experiences in real life. Worse, Elaine thinks of her tormentors as her friends. She notes that 

“[h]atred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.”

The cruelty of children – and, as we later discover, of adults – is something against which Elaine is powerless. We want to save her, but as readers, we’re as impotent as she is. It makes you wonder: what would you do if your child were in this situation? The only consolation is that with Elaine as a present-day narrator, we know her suffering, at least, has an end.

When Elaine enters adulthood she takes control of her life. A consequence of this is that the book becomes much less stressful to read. At the same time however, I found myself losing sympathy for Elaine. While she does things, the reasons behind her actions are sometimes not explored; it’s as if a veil has suddenly been drawn between her and the reader. Elaine the adult is strangely passive; her affair with her professor, for example, is something that sort of happens to her, rather than a relationship in which she actively participates. I also didn’t really get a sense of why she becomes an artist and nor did I “feel” her art. Her surreal paintings, though obviously related to her past, are never explained directly. I can understand why she paints Mrs Smeath, for example, but I would’ve liked to know how she made the more particular artistic choices, like why she chose to paint Mrs Smeath in various states of undress, why she chose to paint her former lovers nude, why she painted those lovers with a woman (herself?) bearing a glass sphere head, and so on. It’s not that these things have to be explained – and some may prefer that they aren’t – but the deliberate opacity between art and artist is something I found frustrating given how deeply Elaine’s experiences are previously described.

Elaine’s relationship with the sexes is an important aspect of the book. To put things simply, Elaine sees boys as her “secret allies” and prefers the company of men. Her childhood goes some way to explaining why she doesn’t like other women and it’s easy to understand her callousness towards Cordelia as an adult – yes it’s mean, but it’s also human. What’s annoying though is the fact that Elaine – well into adulthood – seems aware of her prejudices, yet continues to lump all women into various categories of “other”.

Pictured: Elaine Risley

The strangest part of this is how she joins those meetings of female artists. It’s hard to fathom. If she dislikes women and finds it so hard to relate to them, why join at all? It’s unclear whether she’s trying to be part of the “sisterhood” or whether she’s there to promote her art or whether it’s something else entirely. When we’re introduced to the group, Elaine is already there, telling us what she thinks of the others. There’s nothing about why she’s there in the first place. Again, I found this lack of information – this lack of why – frustrating rather than pleasantly intriguing.

I can’t help but see the whole situation around Elaine’s retrospective as reflective of Margaret Atwood’s own experience as a poster child for feminism. Elaine rails against a journalist’s attempts to elicit some sort of feminist interpretation of her paintings, but in the end, accepts that other people will impose their own meanings on things, appropriating her art to their own ends. It’s an interesting critique and as valid as it is, in this particular case I feel as if Elaine’s irritation is largely self-inflicted – she pretty much lets these misunderstandings happen (those arty farty painting titles don’t exactly help), then complains about being misunderstood.

Cat’s Eye isn’t exactly an enjoyable read, but it’s worth reading. The book is achingly tender and at times outright painful. If you’ve had an “ordinary” life of first world problems, you’ll probably find something here to remind you of your own childhood – anything from the sort of bullying described to schoolyard games of marbles to the collecting of silver cigarette papers (for the purpose of making some future amazing thing). There is a haunting, nostalgic quality to the narrative, especially when it comes to descriptions of Elaine’s family. The novel is beautifully written and vividly detailed, with narration so eloquent that it seems a pity Elaine’s not a writer. Whether or not you like Elaine, whether or not you agree with her actions, it’s hard not to be touched by her experiences. Cat’s Eye is the sort of book that reaches into your chest and squeezes. Recommended.

Alex’s Rating: 4/5

Book Review: Tinkers

Title: Tinkers
Author: Paul Harding
Year Published: 2009
Genre: General and literary fiction, Contemporary fiction, Drama

Paul Harding's Tinkers is an interesting work. The plot, as it is, concerns an old man who begins to hallucinate eight days before he dies. Through an odd, dream-like lens, the novel reveals snatched glimpses of his life, his father's life and his grandfather's life. It's a strange and stunning experience from beginning to end.

Harding's use of language is masterful and evocative, descriptive yet lean at the same time. As you read about George's childhood with his travelling salesman father Howard, and Howard's childhood in turn, you really feel the stark isolation of life in early 20th century New England. You also sympathise with George as he lies in his living room with his family, waiting for death, and you can also believe that Howard experiences his epileptic seizures as episodes of the divine. As in memories and dreams, things are at once hazy and clear and logical and not. Simply put, Tinkers contains some of the best writing I've read in a long time.

The book shifts back and forth between different points of view, different tenses, different stories and different times. The author uses no quotation marks, which further blurs the line between thought, dialogue, hallucination and narration. Sometimes, the prose erupts into stream-of-consciousness mode, resulting in sentences so long they leave you breathless. At other times, passages are interrupted mid-story to make way for fictional extracts from The Reasonable Horologist and another, unknown work. This can all be quite maddening. If the thought of reading something “literary” makes you shudder, then this is most definitely not the book for you. Indeed, the way it's written feels almost like Harding's thrown in the whole Eng Lit bag of tricks. On its face, the narrative is just a bunch of events, told in no apparent order, with no apparent connection (other than the familial connection of the characters), and no apparent conclusion. It seems deliberately confusing and gives the impression of being one of those books where the author is just showing you how much smarter and deeper s/he is than you are or ever will be, you pleb, you.

Ultimately, I was moved by the book's characters – you really do become immersed in their lives – and I marvelled at Harding's ability to craft finely captured “moments” in almost every scene. The writing truly demands to be noticed; it is beautiful in a strangely refreshing way and reading it was like being dipped into a clear, still pool of water. Everything is so well done that I couldn't help but like Tinkers, and yet, at the same time, it was so stylised and so aggressively ~literary~ that I almost hated it. Just as well it's a short read – any longer and admiration could have easily turned to disdain.

Alex's Rating: 4/5

Book Review: Coastliners

Title: Coastliners
Author: Joanne Harris
Year Published: 2002
Genre: General and literary fiction, Drama

Following the death of her mother, Mado returns to her childhood home in Le Devin, a tiny island off the French coast. After ten years away, she finds that the generations-old rivalry between the two island communities - Les Salants and La Houssinière - remains strong. Morale is low in Les Salants, for it has suffered repeated floods while La Houssinière thrives with growing tourism. Cue a mysterious stranger, plans to revive Les Salants and some father-daughter tensions and the stage is set for drama.

The evocative atmosphere is the most memorable aspect of the book. Descriptions of the dunes, the beach and island life suffuse the novel and you get a great sense of place. Strangely and disappointingly, while Mado is a painter, there are virtually no descriptions of her craft. If you've read Chocolat (which in my opinion is better), you'll have an idea of what you’re in for. Like Chocolat, the male love interest is a handyman drifter character and you have a small community whose personal dramas give meat to the main plot.

Many scenes in the book are just comprised of various conversations between the villagers. They're all pretty much introduced at once, and though it's hard to keep track of them initially, you catch on. Le Devin is inhabited with many colourful personalities, and for me, they walked the line between flawed-yet-loveable characters and flat stereotyped placeholders (thankfully I still liked them). The main character, Mado, is largely easy to relate to, but sometimes her feelings and motivations are left kind of vague, which is vaguely frustrating. Whether you like the characters will be a fairly subjective matter, albeit one which contributes greatly to whether you'll enjoy the novel.

I had thought this would be a breezy kind of read, but it's actually the kind of book where everything just plods along until the end, when suddenly things happen. The ending feels rushed, as if the author suddenly realised she had to tie up all the family drama plotlines and had only a limited number of pages in which to do so. All those "reveals" made me feel like I was reading a mystery, which maybe this was. While things are ~resolved~, I wasn't completely satisfied as the outcome seemed like a bit of a cop-out; further, I would have liked certain aspects, such as Mado's relationship with her father, explored in greater depth. The rushed ending makes me disinclined to accept that it's ~supposed to be ambiguous~.

Coastliners is the kind of book you'd read when you're looking for something comfortable and easy, something relaxing to pass the time. The writing is smooth and the environment appealing. While the plot and the characters can feel somewhat shallow at times, the entire thing is suffused with a great deal of charm, making it a pleasant experience overall.

Alex's Rating: 3.5/5