Horrid by Katrina Leno
Published by Little, Brown, 2020
Rating: ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
I very rarely pick up YA books these days, but this one intrigued me enough to consider giving it a shot. On the whole, I’m glad I did; its slower, more character focussed approach to horror allowing it to stand out in an otherwise saturated genre.
The story opens following the sudden death of Jane’s father. Facing financial strain, and hoping to escape their grief, she and her mother are forced to sell their house in California and relocate to North Manor; a run down, inherited property in rural Maine. It’s clear that Jane’s mother never wanted to return to her childhood home, and as strange goings on begin to occur, and whispers of a dark past grow ever more apparent, it soon becomes clear why.
The novel is chiefly concerned with mental health, both the impact of grief and the influence of inherited, generational trauma. It is definitely at its strongest when it leans into these more cerebral elements, embracing the ambiguity of true horror versus horror of the mind. I particularly appreciated that Leno wasn’t afraid to present us with a protagonist who is clearly flawed. Jane, suffering from severe anger issues, is not always easy to like, let alone to root for, and this moral complexity adds depth and dimension to the narrative.
I also enjoyed the subtext about the comfort and escapism offered by books. We are repeatedly told how much Jane loves to read, especially the works of Agatha Christie. When her anger threatens to overwhelm her, Jane’s preferred coping method is to secretly eat a page from one of her books. In a thematic sense, the act of consuming literature helps to ease her mood, but it also establishes Jane’s mental state as increasingly unreliable. Surreal elements like this, and the story’s twisted climax, really give the novel some punch, and I would have loved Leno to push them even further.
Less successful are the book’s pacing and structure. The Big Reveal hinges around a so-called “secret de Polichinelle”. Put simply, this means an open secret that everyone knows except the protagonist, but which no one mentions because they assume the protagonist does already know. This technique can be successful, but feels laboured in this instance. Not only is there a convoluted means of shoehorning its definition into the story, it also becomes clear to the reader what’s going on long before it occurs to Jane. This results in a lot of meandering, with everyone skirting around the (obvious) truth, and not much else going on to justify the word count.
Solid in its ideas but flawed in execution, Horrid is both singular and readable enough to be worth checking out if you feel at all tempted.
Seeing this repeatedly described as “experimental” and “a book of two halves” had me intrigued but a little apprehensive heading in, as such novels can often be difficult to connect with emotionally. I’m pleased to say I ended up liking it a lot more than I initially anticipated, and on the contrary, I found it surprisingly moving.
Speak No Evil is a book of contrasts, being at once subtle yet affecting, tender yet devastating, and tragic yet hopeful. It is testament to Iweala’s control that he can pull off this intricate balancing act, without ever losing focus on his plot or characters.
Sealed is the kind of speculative fiction that is at once both highly allegorical and frighteningly plausible. This is testament to Booth’s ability to ground her thematic intent within a compelling narrative.
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In a lot of ways, my rating for this one feels harsh. In the hands of the right reader, this is a perfectly decent book, full of warmth and heart. The story opens with two women, Hope and Anna, giving birth on the same maternity ward. While Anna’s baby arrives safely, Hope’s is tragically stillborn. In a grief-fuelled haze, Hope snatches Anna’s baby and endeavours to raise her as her own. We then jump forward nearly 18 years, when events will transpire to bring the truth out and reunite these two families.
I’m having a hard time organising my thoughts for this strange little novel. I found it utterly compelling to read, the setting that Clarke has created both rich and absorbing, but I didn’t find it as surprising or revelatory on a thematic level as most other readers seem to have done.
With her strikingly contemporary voice, Lowe breathes new life into the sonnet, an otherwise archaic form of poetry. Switching seamlessly between poignancy and humour, the collection is primarily concerned with youth; exploring experiences from Lowe’s own childhood, that of her son, and of the students she mentored throughout her decade long teaching career. She dives into the intersection of class, race, and gender that exemplifies inner-city London; her identity as a white passing half English, half Chinese/Jamaican woman offering a unique perspective.
This collection focusses almost entirely on the tragic loss of the poet’s father. Schminkey lays bare the visceral indignity of a slow, painful death. Having always had a complicated relationship with their father (an alcoholic with a violent streak), the poems do an excellent job of exploring the fraught middle-ground between grief and resentment, posing interestingly nuanced questions: Are sympathy and care familial rights, or should they have to be earned? Does death absolve someone of their mistakes? Is it wrong to feel relieved when someone finally lets go?
When a book has been hugely hyped, venturing into it always comes with the fear it will disappoint, but The Vanishing Half more than exceeded my high expectations.
