Patrick

I have a habit of glancing at the blurb of a book just long enough to get the general gist of the story, but I then quickly avert my eyes to avoid potential spoilers.

This often leads to wildly different expectations about what I think the story will be versus what it actually turns out to be.

Take The Secret History, for example. I expected a thriller or mystery: rich college students, full of hubris, going on a murderous rampage in a quiet, tranquil U.S. town. That is, indeed, what Donna Tartt’s debut novel is about. And yet, I was completely unprepared for how genuinely funny this book ended up being.

The group of sociopaths at the center of the story are not meant to be liked. Their few redeeming traits are far overshadowed by a myriad of terrible ones. While I did grow fond of two characters, I couldn’t, if pressed, make any convincing arguments in their favor.

But, my god, they are hilarious. A chaotic mix of incompetence, depravity, arrogance, and sheer stupidity, they somehow manage to make you laugh with nearly every line—delivered with perfect deadpan humour, even as their lives (predictably) spiral out of control.

If I have one criticism of The Secret History, it’s the length. Much of the second half could have been trimmed, with some plot-lines cut, to deliver the ending in a more impactful way. But that’s easily forgiven when the majority of the book is such a joy to read.

4 Stars.

At just 200 pages, it’s difficult to review this book without risking spoilers. So, I’ll keep it brief, with the added note that I loved Philippe Besson’s later novel Lie With Me.

In the Absence of Men, unfortunately, missed the mark for me. The characters didn’t feel believable—particularly the 16-year-old protagonist, Vincent. The love explored came across as disingenuous, even undeserved, and the friendship with French writer Marcel Proust felt contrived. It’s perhaps no surprise, then, that the twist at the end failed to leave an impact and came dangerously close to feeling like a joke made in bad taste.

Still, 3 stars, because Besson’s prose remains as beautiful as ever.

Tin Man may follow the cliché story beats of tragic love between two men, but it is a story beautifully told in less than 200 pages. Author Sarah Winman connects art, grief, and lost chances in a tale steeped in melancholy. Yet, it leaves you with the comforting knowledge that peace can still be found in the memories of those who shaped our lives and made us whole. The true stars of this book, however, are not the two main characters but the women who hold their world together. Through them, I think Winman has managed to carve out a story that overcomes its predictable subject matter—it’s the female characters that make Tin Man worth reading.

4 Stars (and I’d trade a kingdom for an LGBT novel with a happily-ever-after).

“These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey

Is loathsome in his own deliciousness

And in the taste confounds the appetite.

Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.”

― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

In 1970s Pittsburgh, against a backdrop of screaming injustice and cynical indifference, two college boys meet—and disaster ensues. What begins as a childish yet all-too-familiar infatuation with each other quickly spirals into something far more sinister.

Micah Nemerever’s debut novel paints the picture of a teenage gay relationship that feels uncomfortably similar to own lived experiences. When you grow up in isolation, constantly aware of a deeply rooted otherness within you—something that alienates, threatens, and is itself always under threat—clinging too tightly to your first love feels almost inevitable. Too great is the fear of losing your newfound happiness, too important the (brittle) foundation upon which you can finally find stability and a sense of belonging.

“There’s this idea in psychoanalysis that I’ve always liked.” Julian pulled himself closer and rested his head in the crook of Paul’s arm. “It’s that what we call ‘love’ is actually letting your identity fill in around the shape of the other person—you love someone by defining yourself against them. It says loss hurts because there’s nothing holding that part of you in place anymore. But your outline still holds, and it keeps holding. The thing you shaped yourself into by loving them, you never stop being that. The marks are permanent, so the idea of the person you loved is permanent, too.”

Desperate to fill in this shape, yet neither of them ever feeling like they are enough, Paul Fleischer and Julian Fromme’s love spirals into a terrifying obsession.

“These Violent Delights” is beautifully written and paced, always hurtling toward inevitable doom and culminating in a devastating conclusion. This is a thriller steeped in heavy themes, with a clear motif echoed in every chapter. I strongly recommend checking the trigger warnings at the top of this page before diving in.

A five-star book that will stay with me for a long time.

“It always makes me a little sad when you laugh," Julian went on. "The way it sort of takes you by surprise. I love it, it has that sweet sincerity that's the best part of you, but it still kills me how you never seem to expect it. All I want to do is make you happy, and you're the unhappiest person I've ever met.”