ReaderMarija's Reviews

Sometimes when you finish reading a novel, as a reader, you really hope that everything will turn out for the best for the main character. This was how I felt when I finished Invitation to the Waltz. I really liked Olivia, and even though I projected some difficult moments for her, I hoped, like her Uncle Oswald, that she would iron out the awkward patches and eventually find her way.

Considering the two Olivia books as a whole—Invitation to the Waltz and The Weather in the Streets—they are essentially inversions of each other. Invitation has an underlying sense of optimism in somewhat bleak circumstances, while The Weather in the Streets takes optimism to the forefront and paints it black. Beauty and love is completely distorted into something twisted and ugly. Nothing is romanticized. Every detail forces the reader to recognize the truth of Olivia’s situation. It’s rather sad.

Interestingly, both books placed together make a good study of a dying lineage...the slow corruption of old money. The Spencers endured one loss before the start of the first book, and the reverberations of this loss slowly fester and infect everyone the family touches. I really liked how Lehmann illustrates this.

Another aspect of this book I rather liked was how Lehmann seamlessly throws in descriptions of what happened to the various characters Olivia met as a young girl at the Waltz. No one is forgotten, and each character has a fairly satisfying resolution. My only fault with this book is that I wished Lehmann developed her new characters a bit more, especially Simon, who seemed such a grand figure in Olivia’s thoughts.

Overall, though I do prefer Invitation to the Waltz to this novel, I do rather enjoy Lehmann’s style. I’m looking forward to reading more works by R. Lehmann.

Hmm...I think that if I gave this book to the reluctant readers I used to work with, after five minutes they would have thrown it across the room in frustration. This story really plays with unreliable narration. It forces the reader to wonder how is it possible for Benjamin to know all of this. What’s truth and what’s fiction? Even though this is a retrospective story, Benjamin’s narration constantly shifts perspective, describing events from other points of view—events he couldn’t possibly have witnessed—with the older Benjamin peaking in at various points, incorporating little notes and comments.

If I approached this book when I was younger, I don’t think I would have liked it, instead preferring my safe, relatively uncomplicated 19th century stories. Josefson’s novel has a post-modern feel, and reminded me of The French Lieutenant’s Woman...how John Fowles as narrator would pop in various intervals saying hello. This is typically not the kind of literary genre I enjoy reading. I generally like texts that read straight through, stories that really allow the reader to focus in on various subtle connections within the text—how complex themes and language connect with and enhance character development. Don’t misunderstand me. That’s Not a Feeling is an novel that certainly does this as well, however, it forces the reader to work in order to find all of the little nuances that are hidden in and among the words. Thus, I think this is one of those works that fairs better when read again.

That said, somehow Josefson’s book appealed to my sense of humor. I do like misfit characters, and this book is chock full of them—from the adults to the children. Everything described is a topsy-turvy mess, a mess that doesn’t seem to want to be resolved or even get better. In that sense, this is a very bleak, almost creepy read. Yet given the fact that this is a retrospective text, there is an underlying sense of survival. Overall, I feel that Josefson penned an interesting book.

Beware of Pity is very good. Zweig reminded me of Thomas Hardy in this novel. Here, Zweig plays with choice and circumstance and their lasting ramifications. This is a very emotional novel. No thoughts or feelings are really hidden—character sympathies and understandings are completely exposed in an unabashed frankness. Thus, the choices the characters make are absolutely understandable. Yet, it is difficult to witness the impact of these decisions, how circumstance and setting hasten the progression of their effects. This is not one of those stories that’s easily forgotten. The title of the English version of Zweig’s novel was well chosen. While it does reflect the message of Anton’s tale, it could also serve as a cautionary warning to the reader.

I do love Zweig’s style. Though I know that some critics feel that this book is essentially two novellas put together, I think Zweig perfectly balanced the two stories. Besides the obvious links, the two stories complement each other well, toying with sympathies and pity—both for oneself and for others—and how they affect choice. Through Zweig’s storytelling, the themes become more solidified. I really liked how Zweig worked this, and I now consider him among my favorite writers.

When I first finished Birdsong, I honestly did not know what to say. My thoughts were jumbled and I wanted to wait until I could see the film version on PBS to see if it would offer a different perspective to aid in my reading and interpretation of the book. I will say that as a first impression, some aspects of the novel did not sit well with me and I was particularly interested in seeing how a screenwriter would/could attempt to film these particular sections of Faulks’ novel. After watching the film, my curiosity was left unsatisfied since these sections were omitted for the most part. While I will say that the film does build up some elements that were lacking in the novel, particularly the relationships between various characters, the film does somehow manage to maintain the same dull emotional distance I felt when reading the story.

What surprised me most about this book was the fact that it’s described as a romantic, epic love story. The emotions felt in this story are not what I would consider being akin to love. Or if this is love, it is truly an ugly form: self-abasement and curiosity mixed with selfish, lustful yearnings...duplicitous acts and manipulations. Even our main character Stephen doesn’t know how to characterize his feelings. All Stephen knows is that whatever he felt for Isabelle was the only real feeling he has ever had for another human being; and the war helps him define this feeling as “love.” As for Isabelle—and the same could be said for her sister Jeanne—something else takes precedence over matters of the heart. Both have ulterior motives that drive them towards Stephen, who ultimately seems to become a pawn in their little games. Comparing Birdsong to the other Faulks novel I have read, The Girl at the Lion d’Or, Faulks’ portrayal of women is not very flattering.

One of the worst parts of Birdsong was the characterization of Elizabeth, the protagonist in the 1978-79 sections of this book. I really don’t know what to make of her, she seems to be a mass of contradictions. Ultimately, I thought her obstinately stupid and I honestly found it difficult reading these particular sections of the book. I feel that there is something gravely wrong when a woman is more concerned about soiling new towels when she is about to give birth than about the wellbeing of her newborn child:

“‘The towels,’ she sobbed, ‘you’ll stain them.’ He gathered a pile of newspapers from the fireplace and spread them on top.”

I think Faulks wanted this scene to be beautiful and heartfelt—Elizabeth finally gets the child she has always longed for and gets to fulfill a legacy. However, little details like this, almost make this important event an awful farce. It chilled me. Also, I found these sections to be the weakest part of this novel. In some ways, they prevent the reader from finding out what really happens to Stephen at the end...what happened between him and Jeanne...does he really learn the truth...was he forced to be in the position we find him at the end. The summation that is given is not at all satisfactory and leaves the reader with even more questions that are not answered by the novel’s close.

I think perhaps the main reason why this book is so acclaimed is how Faulks describes war. He does succeed in portraying war in minute, graphic detail. He is very precise, down to the way soldiers can destroy each other, evident in Stephen’s interactions with Weir. Yet, the descriptions are at the same time cold and distant. Faulks writes stories like a news correspondent. He reports facts, while maintaining a distance. Even though the reader sees, the reader doesn’t feel it happening. Though I do think that this is how some people do experience a war—not real...can’t believe it’s happening to them...detached. However, these war sections of the novel are not the only sections that read like this. The entire book—the romances and Elizabeth’s personal quest—read the same way. Birdsong is written with the same monotone, dull voice with no real attempt at differentiation. I just think this is Faulks’ personal style since The Girl at the Lion d’Or reads the same way.

All said, I was really looking forward to reading this novel, however I was ultimately left disappointed by the story.

When watching an episode of Benny Hill, have you ever noticed that signature look of his—the cute innocent half grin paired with that wicked gleam in his eyes? Well, I had that same Benny Hill look plastered on my face throughout this “final” installment of Ms. Moning’s Fever series. I can’t help but find this series ridiculously amusing. For me, this book was a mass of giggles, all leading up to that absolutely priceless moment when Mac believes she has finally figured out who and what she is. After reading that one wonderful sentence, I almost died, my giggles morphing into cackles to the point where I couldn’t catch my breath and wound up choking. That’s the absolute truth. I remember thinking, “Oh, wait until Barrons hears about this!” But when we finally get to that part of the book, while I fully admit his reaction is good, I was hoping for more.

To describe my overall thoughts about this story, I’m going to borrow from what my grandmother said about yesterday’s episode of General Hospital: “What is this? Everybody’s going berserk. It’s really ridiculous.” Even though the book is huge, the story is really silly—the answers that are given only happen within those final pages. Even though I knew from the start Mac’s true identity, the big reveal only happens at the end, with just enough open ends to allow for additional books to this series. If you’re looking for all of the answers to your questions, unfortunately you won’t be getting them in this installment.

I’m so happy I was right about Barrons’ little secret and why he wanted that book! However, I pictured a different scenario from the one that is given. I imagined a kind of abomination, seeking revenge for being created and left behind in the form of the DEG. I think this would have made for a more dramatic denouement than the one that is given. The finale we do get is almost farcical in its construction—the bickering and arguing—characters entering in and out—the freeze framing and scenes within scenes. It was too busy. Because of this, I felt that this essential moment lost some of its significance—like when when a canvas turns brown from being layered with too many colors.

While I do think that Shadowfever is the most entertaining book of the series, it still has its faults, and I was hoping for more of a conclusion than the one that is given.

All told, the story is simple in its summation—a young girl’s birthday followed by her experiences at her first dance—but it would be a detriment to leave it at that. Olivia is a wonderful observer. She catches people both at their best and their worst—all pretense is stripped away, revealing the true nature of every character. This is an honest book full of awkwardness and vulnerability. Yet at same time, Olivia’s observations of both herself and others are often wonderfully amusing.

However, there is a sense of hidden danger given Olivia’s character—as her Uncle Oswald stated, there’s a tendency for wanting “what other people tell [her] to want.” She has that strong youthful desire to please everyone, even though deep down, she knows that that it might not always be possible. Ultimately for Olivia, her first party is a valuable learning experience. Yet rather than dashing away all of that youthful optimism, the book leaves the reader with a feeling of hope at the end—regardless of the near past and near future—everything may turn out all right. Overall, this is an excellent little book and one of my favorites.

Essentially Dreamfever reads like a long prologue to the massive finale that is Shadowfever. Even though all of the pieces are beginning to come together, the end is still annoyingly far away.

One of the things I liked best about this installment was that even after everything Mac has experienced, she is still Mac regardless of the fact that she no longer feels like her rainbow self. She is still impulsive and reckless, incapable of really seeing and understanding what is directly in front of her. It is absolutely wonderful. As I was reading, I couldn’t help but commiserate with Barrons’ sentiments—feeling that same sort of frustration with Mac’s stupidity, and yet, after everything is said and done, be amused by it.

I didn’t really like how Ms. Moning brought Mac and Barrons together in this book. At the end of book three, I envisioned two paths Ms. Moning could have taken. Unfortunately, she ultimately chose the predictable cheap and trashy route. In regards to Barrons in this installment, as soon as I saw the illustration of Mac’s tattoo at the end of Bloodfever, I suspected something was up, though I was hoping Ms. Moning wouldn’t go there. Though, I am happy to say that at least one part of my initial prediction about Barrons in Darkfever proved correct! Now if only my prediction is correct in regards to the identity of this new mystery figure...I will truly be a happy camper. ;)

This series really brings out my evil side. Every few pages I keep bursting with giggles—I can’t help it. The way Mac effervesces, gushing and bubbling all over the place, is so cartoonish. I can almost picture a rainbow trail following her wherever she goes—the perfect accessory to complement her “MacHalo.” ;) But what I particularly love is how Mac’s inner self completes the image. The way she comes up with all of those far out ideas and conclusions is absolutely wonderful, especially in regards to Barrons. It is impossible to truly hate her, especially when she comes out with those brilliant lines: “ ‘Elucidate,’ I said dryly. I’ve been learning new words. I’ve been reading a lot lately.” Mac is a true mess, yet she perfectly fulfills the cutesy Disney faerie imagery we all grew up with.

Unfortunately this installment pushes poor Mac Barbie to the limits. I knew that Mac was going to be tempting fate as soon as she offered up that little offhand comment to Barrons. It certainly led to a cruel and brutal ending—one that is absolutely true for Mac, though it could also easily apply to the reader as well.

In regards to Barrons, though given a little more information about his “otherworldliness,” we don’t really learn that much more about him. He’s just as enigmatic as before. However, Ms. Moning does possibly provide another revealing piece about his past...in the form of that rather brief description of the boy scribe. Yet, I’m not so sure that I want to believe it, since I personally like my conception better.

Still searching.... ;) Oh that Mac is such a ditz! Miss Barbie is an open book and has no idea how to hide her cards. Not only that, but she is too gullible. If someone says something to her, she immediately believes it as truth. I can’t count the number of times I rolled my eyes in this installment...especially in her various assessments of Barrons’ capabilities. Though what I found truly shocking is how Ms. Moning tries to dispel Mac’s ditzy image with that image of a woman of substance, i.e. portraying her as someone who scraped by with C’s in school, yet at the same time, someone who also happens to be well read with an erudite vocabulary, who is also able to quote Kahil Gibran. This is one silly book! ;)

I’m sorry to say that the big shocking reveal at the end of this novel was a major dud for me. I thought it obvious from the beginning. As soon as the reader is told about the properties of the amulet, all the pieces immediately come together. To me, it felt like a neon light was turned on, began flashing, yet none of the characters were able to see it. I found this so frustrating and was beginning to wonder if Barrons was somehow losing his touch...that being in such close proximity to Mac was proving to be detrimental to his usual brisk alertness. ;)

Yet of course, none of these novels are ever complete without a rescue scene—no surprise there. What I love about them is that even though danger is imminent, there is always time for banter...for apologies...lots of time for bickering and arguing and even for experiences of complete abandonment of all sense and reason. I can honestly say, this is one of the craziest and most far out rescues I have ever read.

The main reason why I finally chose to read these Fever novels is the fact that they appealed to a number of Goodreaders with diverse reading tastes. After reading this first book, I can certainly understand the interest in this series, since it does have various elements that could satisfy different readers. But while I did find some story elements that did appeal to me, I was for the most part unsatisfied with this first story.

Nothing happens in this book! In truth, I can easily summarize what happens in one sentence: A beloved sister is dead and Mac begins a quest to find her sister’s killer, as well as discover the whereabouts of the mysterious book her sister mentions in her final cryptic phone message. Essentially that’s it for the story, apart from the fact that Mac discovers she has “special” powers and meets a few quirky characters along the way. As I was reading, I couldn’t help but feel that if this single book was being scripted for a TV series, the story could easily fit an hour program—that’s all. By the end of the book, nothing is really solved...as a reader I felt as if the author was dangling a carrot in my face, forcing me onto the next book in her series. This “fever”—if you can really call it that—to me felt more akin to a kind of author-reader betrayal. It’s not at all a pleasant feeling.

The only real reason why I want to continue with the series is to see if my predictions about Barrons were well founded. He is the only character in this book I like—even though he’s in the background for the most part. Barrons is one of those dark, gothic, brooding force of nature types...and I want to find out what he’s hiding. When he first came out from the shadows in that book shop...I immediately felt that there was something otherworldly about him and by the novel’s close I felt that he seemed much too old for thirty—even though I used to know someone who was like that. At the end of the first book, I coined a nickname for Barrons: “black sheep.” He seems like someone or something that broke away from family—(I think he has a brother)—and past...to live life his own way on his terms. I honestly have no idea how this will turn out—as I’m writing this I’m only about thirty pages into the third book—and his background is just as shadowed and unclear as in the first.

In regards to Mac, I don’t really know what to say about her. I think “Miss Rainbow” says enough. Though I do love how she’s coined herself as Barrons’ personal “OOP Detector.” ;)

Elizabeth Bowen has somehow managed to portray stasis as an art form. In a book where mere suggestion alone can result in so much soul searching and change is truly amazing. Yet her story is told beautifully and not only that, but there are some wonderfully bleak moments thrown in as well. The ending is both unexpected and eccentric; yet it’s fun...it’s on par with that perfect 10 moment with Bo Derek and Dudley Moore. I couldn’t help but giggle. ;) That said, this scene does work, since you can almost picture the past reborn.

In regards to the characters:

Antonia: At times, her relationship with Guy reminded me of Cathy and Heathcliff, i.e. after Cathy’s marriage...that selfish teasing...playing with each other’s emotions getting joy out of witnessing each other’s pain. Guy told her, you’ll never be rid of me and in some ways, she never was. However, that’s also where the similarities end. For Antonia, freedom seems to be her one true love.

Lilia: Guy essentially takes up all of her coherent thoughts...except for her desire to be a mistress of the house. In some ways, these two things are her selfish obsession, even though she knows neither of these two things can be realized. For her, everyone and everything else cancels out, especially her two daughters.

Fred: Outwardly, he has the appearance of everything that is manly—strength, stature and a rakish past. However that’s where it all ends, since he turns into mush in Lilia’s hands and through the presence of those letters. I wholeheartedly agreed with Maud perceiving him as “looking small.”

Jane: Jane inadvertently brings everything to the surface and out in the open. She’s essentially a young innocent, whose heart has been awakened, yearning for a first love.

Maud: Oh, the bells, the bells! One of her chief pleasures in her young life is listening to chimes of Big Ben on the wireless. She’s eccentric for a child, yet she’s more of an adult than anyone else in this story. She is the only one who is really trying to put things into motion and get things done. Unfortunately on the surface it seems her efforts are unappreciated.

When I was about five years old, I remember looking through Mom’s bookshelf and coming across the title The Last Tycoon. I recall thinking, “Tycoon...Tycoon?” What’s that?” I conjured up this image of an island bracing for a major storm, its last—my mind equating the word tycoon with typhoon. I also have this vivid memory of pulling the book out from the shelf, and when looking at the cover, feeling a sense of disappointment, ultimately coming to the conclusion that my tropical interpretation of the story was better.

Now having finally read it, I think the main disappointment I have with the story is that Fitzgerald was never able to finish it. This first section of the novel is actually very good. The story is focused on character. Stahr—the Irving Thalberg “boy wonder”—is an emotional mess...drugged...overworked...depressed...basically on the verge of death. Then he meets Kathleen and his whole world changes. Yet Kathleen is a go-getter, who will only choose to follow a certain path if it will eventually prove to be beneficial to her in every way. She is a conniving wench, who holds Stahr in the palm of her hand, even though circumstances don’t entirely go her way.

Yet after reading Fitzgerald’s notes for this story regarding how he planned on finishing it, I started to wonder how it would have really turned out. From his notes, the story veers from good drama to a film noir type of story...gangsters...murder plots...money...etc., topped off with a macabre side story involving children—this portion of Fitzgerald’s notes is certainly eerie, yet, so visually true at the same time. Children can be completely ruthless, acting without conscience in that way.

When I came across this title, I thought it would be fun to read. I rather enjoy those Where the Boys Are stories. When done well, like that film and some of those Sarah Dessen novels, the summer-girl-boy theme can be cute. On some levels, The Summer My Life Began does have some good points, however I don’t feel that the book reached its full potential as a story.

I like the idea behind the story, and in some ways it was something I could relate to. The main character Elizabeth Margaret (Em) is at the top of her class and on her way to an Ivy League school. For all of those years, Em has been focused on her work and studies and never really had time set aside for herself. Presented with the opportunity to spend a part of her summer with her Aunt at her beach resort, she jumps at the opportunity.

There, Em meets some interesting kids, namely Frederick, Cade, James and Beth. However, these characters aren’t fully developed. Yes by the story’s end, the reader does learn some facts about them—which at times were predictable—, however they’re just statements—labels put on these characters to make them more salient to the story. The way Greenland presents this information felt jarring, especially since there was ample opportunity for her to flesh out these characters in a more gradual fashion.

As I was reading this story, I couldn’t help but remember how my mother described reading Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black—reading and reading and reading, nothing is happening, then all of a sudden something happens that forces you to attention, and yet when you think about it, it doesn’t at all make sense. The Summer My Life Began is likewise marked by this feeling of stasis. The first half of the book is essentially summarized by my second paragraph, with the addition of those other characters. Since Em is telling the story, the reader is suffused with her musings and thoughts—the direction her life is going—is she happy, not happy—what is she going to do—oh and there are a couple of hot guys here to keep me company as well! I like reading stories about inner conflicts, however Em’s musings only made me question her intelligence. For this valedictorian, supposedly on the way to Harvard, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Where is her common sense?” In regards to the all important question of her future, why couldn’t she consider two directions instead of one? She could easily have chosen both, and it would certainly have served as an asset to future plans. She doesn’t have good business sense. As well, she lacks tact. For example, when her grandmother’s long-buried secret comes to light, Em immediately confronts her grandmother with it via a sudden impromptu telephone conversation. Even at eighteen, I would have known that this was not the kind of conversation one should have on the telephone.

While the first half of the book is complete stasis, the second half is soap opera—all of the skeletons in the closet are released. The story shifts from Where the Boys Are to one of those 1950s Troy Donahue films. I didn’t mind this so much, as it brought some needed spice to the story. However, if I was writing this, I think I would have taken it a little further in regards to the mystery figure on the yacht. In my mind’s eye, as I was reading, I was picturing a more intimate relationship in regards to Tilly...i.e. someone long lost finally returned. In fact, at one point I thought Greenland was suggesting this, though she never takes it any further.

Overall, my feelings for this book are somewhat mixed. At the outset, there is a lot of potential for this story, yet I don’t quite feel that Greenland reached it by the novel’s close.

Palladian is essentially a hodge-podge of Jane Eyre, Rebecca and Jane Austen. While Austen is certainly acerbic and nettling in regards to her wit, Elizabeth Taylor is all the more abrasive in this novel. Palladian reads like a satire of good gothic fiction. In effect, Taylor morphs the hauntingly dark, brooding male lead and makes him almost effeminate in appearance, complete with long spindly hands. And while, there is a brooding male in this story, who draws macabre anatomical drawings that remind me of M.C. Escher’s Peeled Faces etching, he turns into a tragicomic figure by the novel’s close. He is stuck in this world of stasis and even though at one point there is an attempt to get out, circumstance and a sense of honor prevent him. It’s an unfortunate waste.

Cassandra is an insipid mess. The amusing thing about her is that she knows she’s insipid, often commenting, “Oh, Jane Eyre would have said something better if she was in this situation.” The problem with Cassandra is that she never says anything. She thinks a great deal, makes a number of astute observations in regards to the other characters and in regards to herself. She understands a great deal about human nature...the possible outcomes of forming an attachment to someone who might not be able to fully love her in return. Yet when given the opportunity to voice these concerns, she doesn’t. I can understand shyness, but Cassandra goes beyond it...she’s just stunned to silence. I think the most frustrating moment of the story occurs when Cassandra is at the brink of getting everything she could possibly want—yet at this rather important moment, all she could say is, “Good night!” ;) I’m so lucky that I have a crazy sense of humor since it came in handy while reading this book.

The best part of this book is the fact that Kate O’Brien allows the reader to feel sympathy towards these characters. Every character in this story is an emotional mess...every thought and feeling is an absolute. No one ever feels by halves. In some ways it’s tragic witnessing these characters deal with life and circumstance, especially when it’s immediately apparent that each character will be forced to go through some form of sacrifice, even the bitchy, overbearing matriarch Hannah.

I felt most attached to the poor child-like innocence of Tom, who was forced to become an adult at a young age, in effect losing his chance to really live. When a chance of escape appears, is it possible to take it, when in the process it’s very possible to lose everything that once was held so dear? Timing is important in regards to change....

The sacrifices for Jo and her brother Martin are more selfish in nature...using the excuse of “time” as a means to go forward with other plans. Especially in regards to Jo, the reason for self-denial is extreme, and one that I didn’t especially like. On the other hand, Martin’s is more psychologically interesting...a way for him to be closer to his one true desire.

Angelè, even though she’s the protagonist, serves more as a catalyst in this story. Her presence drives the story on and in some ways helps time to bring about change, even though in some ways, time does change her.

And then there’s Hannah. She’s the kind of woman who knowingly ignores everything around her, pretending she doesn’t know when she does, unless it happens to pertain to her number one son, Tom. I honestly don’t like her. Yet I liked how O’Brien portrayed her at the end. O’Brien allows the reader to ask the question, “Does she really get everything she wants?” I loved what Angelè says to Hannah at the end, as well as how that whole scene plays out. It’s good.

I first came across the name Monica Dickens from one of the recent articles I read commemorating Charles Dickens’ bicentennial—Monica’s great-grandfather. When I was looking through her bibliography, I thought The Landlord’s Daughter would be particularly interesting since it was her take on Alfred Noyes’ The Highwayman. Well...I don’t think there are any words to describe how much I disliked this novel.

On the one hand there is the story...Charlotte’s all consuming love for Peter—a person she barely knows. Like Elizabeth Taylor’s Angel, Charlotte builds up her own fantasies. However, this is where the similarities end. Angel has a strong sense of self. In contrast, Charlotte is overwhelmed by her insecurities, which in turn forces her to develop this fantasy life and love. It is very disconcerting, especially since she knows about Peter’s secret. In fact, it makes her love him even more, since she’s more titilated by it than disgusted. In turn, he takes pleasure in this. As a result their relationship is creepy and sadistic.

Yet, what really upset me was Dickens’ storytelling. She never really gives us enough explanations, especially concerning what led up to the conflict between Peter and the landlord’s daughter. It is left up to speculation. Yet, the explanations that are given, I found unsatisfactory. I didn’t quite understand the town’s reactions to this fairly significant event. As it’s described, it does not really make sense.

Ultimately, this is an extremely strange story, one that I unfortunately found completely disappointing.