The Shining Girls

On the surface, this book had many things that I love: A psychopath. Time travel. A May-December romance (Harrison Ford I still love you bb). Sophisticated 1920s era lesbians. Etc, etc.

And...yet. The sum is less than its parts. I've read some of Beukes' previous novels, and she certainly has a real knack for imaginative plot devices and world-building. In this story of one man sowing murder and madness through the decades via a time-portal in an old house, I wasn't bothered by the fact that the hows and whys of the time travel wasn't explained. The creaky old house with the boarded up windows, full of treasures the killer has stolen from his "shining girls," was creepy and evocative enough for me - I didn't need that bogged down with a "scientific" explanation of how the villain skipped through the years and found his victims. But what I can't excuse is the lack of motive, or really any depth of characterization, in his character. He's barely more than a sketch - and as a result a lot of what he does feels completely random. Is he a drunk? Was he abused? Just insane? A misogynist? An opportunist? What the hell is his story, and why do I care?

The heroine, Kirby, is slightly more fleshed out. However, I still didn't find her very compelling. Also I hate the name Kirby. Sorry, Kirby. Her boss/mentor/love interest was equally mild. I kept picturing him in those sad dad sweaters, which didn't help (You know: a chunky textured knit, maybe in a forest green. The sweater equivalent of that 'wommp wommp' sound).

Funnily enough, the characters that stood out the most to me were the "shining girls" that are stalked and murdered in short interstitial chapters. From different eras, with different struggles - in those concise sections their lives are richly imagined. The killer is drawn to them because of their potential, which seems to "shine" from them - and the writing certainly reflects this. Too bad the rest of the book had to suffer.

2 unlicensed haruspices* out of 5.

*Look it up, dummy.

The Walking

I have a love/hate relationship with horror novels.  When a book is so unsettling that you change your movements in the physical world, that’s love:  when you have to jerk your foot up onto the bed so nothing grabs it, when you have to look over your shoulder, when you have to put the book in the freezer.  I feel like novelists who can produce those moments are some of our greatest talents – as opposed to the movies, when a jump scare is enough to get the blood pumping, readers need to be crept up on and slowly worked into unsettling paranoia. Sadly, a lot of horror novelists lean more toward the cheap thrills of B-list horror cinema than the sublime creepiness of a well-crafted spooky story. I hate feeling like I just waded through a schlocky soup of blood & guts – pages of gory, cartoonish description might put my off my lunch slightly, but they aren’t really scary.  

Bentley Little, according to this story of mysterious deaths ( and even more mysterious posthumous behavior), falls in the middle of the spectrum. There were some unsettling passages and creative visuals, but the cheesy gore seemed to drive the plot, instead of punctuate it. And, speaking of plot, it’s never a good sign when, in an effort to illuminate the twists & turns of the story, one of the characters has to say “sometimes there just isn’t an explanation.” NO. TRY AGAIN. That’s not even a Deus Ex Machina, that’s…a Deus Ex Quicquid. Stephen King, don't you ever betray me with a cover quote like that again. Throwing some side-eye at you too, ghost of Bram Stoker.

In sum: I did not put this book in the freezer. I kept it on my nightstand and slept soundly and restfully with my limbs splayed over the edge of the bed & the window wide open. Horror fail. 

2 overly-gratuitous Saw sequels out of 5 (I heard the first one is pretty good but I can’t see it – too scary!)