witzelsucht
An underwhelming, annoying book. I love stylised prose with a wide vocabulary; I don't think a book having "windowpane" or "invisible" prose is praise. But this book ain't it. Lines like "the singsong timbre of his voice familiar, the sound of it like a coyote lying about where he’d left the sun" and "jaw sharp as a promise" are twaddle. Somewhere amid all the mixed metaphors is a fun ghost story starring an amusingly messed-up gaggle of exes, but Khaw fails to find it.
Some of this book's sentences are so nonsensical I wasn't sure if they actually contained typos or were just the author trying and failing to be clever. Shouldn't that "every one" be "everyone"? Shouldn't that "poured" be "pored"? Shouldn't "a loci for our celebrations" be "a locus..."? And what the hell is wrong with this first-person protagonist that has her thinking exclusively in tortured metaphors and similes, anyway?
For all the show-offy vocabulary, the author runs out of phrases and mannerisms pretty fast. Everything is sweet, ink, mildew, indigo, froth, rills, and breath. Everyone's mouths and lips are thinning, pinching, slimming, and pinning. Everyone's licking their lips and teeth and running their fingers through their hair. The amygdala, cerebrum, and medulla oblongata are namedropped, just so you know the author's looked at a diagram of the brain and was determined to shoehorn most of it in. The repetitions stick out all the more for how short the book is and how desperately the prose is contrived. A book that consists of around 22,000 words but still manages to make two of them "chiaroscuro" is trying way too hard.
I could forgive the prose's overreaching ambition if it felt earnest, but it's combined with characters who keep ironically lampshading the weakness of the plot. The result just feels like the reader is being held in contempt. If the plot's such a knowing hack job, maybe the author should've spent more time on it, and less consulting the thesaurus? Did they want anything in this story to be meaningful, or to evoke anything approaching real? Is it all supposed to be a big joke, and if so, on whom?
Ugh, whatever. It's short and the cover's cool.
An underwhelming, annoying book. I love stylised prose with a wide vocabulary; I don't think a book having "windowpane" or "invisible" prose is praise. But this book ain't it. Lines like "the singsong timbre of his voice familiar, the sound of it like a coyote lying about where he’d left the sun" and "jaw sharp as a promise" are twaddle. Somewhere amid all the mixed metaphors is a fun ghost story starring an amusingly messed-up gaggle of exes, but Khaw fails to find it.
Some of this book's sentences are so nonsensical I wasn't sure if they actually contained typos or were just the author trying and failing to be clever. Shouldn't that "every one" be "everyone"? Shouldn't that "poured" be "pored"? Shouldn't "a loci for our celebrations" be "a locus..."? And what the hell is wrong with this first-person protagonist that has her thinking exclusively in tortured metaphors and similes, anyway?
For all the show-offy vocabulary, the author runs out of phrases and mannerisms pretty fast. Everything is sweet, ink, mildew, indigo, froth, rills, and breath. Everyone's mouths and lips are thinning, pinching, slimming, and pinning. Everyone's licking their lips and teeth and running their fingers through their hair. The amygdala, cerebrum, and medulla oblongata are namedropped, just so you know the author's looked at a diagram of the brain and was determined to shoehorn most of it in. The repetitions stick out all the more for how short the book is and how desperately the prose is contrived. A book that consists of around 22,000 words but still manages to make two of them "chiaroscuro" is trying way too hard.
I could forgive the prose's overreaching ambition if it felt earnest, but it's combined with characters who keep ironically lampshading the weakness of the plot. The result just feels like the reader is being held in contempt. If the plot's such a knowing hack job, maybe the author should've spent more time on it, and less consulting the thesaurus? Did they want anything in this story to be meaningful, or to evoke anything approaching real? Is it all supposed to be a big joke, and if so, on whom?
Ugh, whatever. It's short and the cover's cool.
Firstly, the cover is gorgeous. Kudos to Elizabeth Wakou for her work. It's the best thing about this book and this star is for her. Secondly, I hated this book's guts. Feminist retelling this, female rage that – I need to get some female rage off my chest right now. A lot of it.
Feminist in marketing only, Lady Macbeth recoils from everything that made the original character powerful and interesting, offering up a defanged "reclamation" that contorts itself around into baffling misogyny. What is this feministly reclaiming, exactly? What was the author's thought process here? "Wouldn't it be subversive if literature's greatest female villain had no power, ambition, personality, or agency? Isn't that actually doing more feminism? What if she wasn't even a villain, because only men can be bad? What if she was a nubile teenager so beautiful it drove men mad to look at her? What if she really needed a handsome prince to save her? What if her biggest burden was being gorgeous?"
The astonishingly brass-necked blurb says this book "gives Lady Macbeth a voice". Christ. She didn't need one. I cannot imagine the dream-world in which this pablum is doing Lady Macbeth any favours. It's a rebuttal against a version of the character that doesn't exist, against a narrative the author has imagined, to glorify an otherwise nothing story. Reid takes a mature, dominant, challenging, driven woman and mushes her down into soft, bland Teletubby custard to make her palatable and #relatable. This corrective new "Lady" is a demure, gentle, beautiful, naïve, feminine, chaste, goody-two-shoes woman-child who can do no wrong, even though that's all she does.
As well as being a preternatural bombshell, our heroine Roscille is meant to be uncommonly observant and clever, which manifests as her jumping to contrived conclusions, BBC Sherlock-style, and getting dozens of people killed along the way. I started questioning this character's supposed resourcefulness when her first ✨ clever plan ✨ gets a castle full of people slaughtered. She thinks vaguely of this as a minor whoopsie, or even a net positive because the castle would've been full of evil rapist men anyway. No, really. She and the narrative are over it in a couple of chapters.
I feel bad for any Scottish people who read this book. Reid's contemptuous portrayal of Scotland would make a medieval propagandist proud: a godforsaken, barbaric place populated by brutish rapists who speak an animalistic language. The Scottish are essentially written as a subhuman fantasy race. Barely a page goes by without some observation of how they are primitive, uncivil, beast-like, cruel, crass, and loveless. If this was set in a fictional world peopled by monsters, such broad strokes might've been easier to swallow, but, as it stands, this "historical" setting just reads like an American author's lazy Celtophobic delusion. For good measure, Reid drops a jus primae noctis mention in the first chapter. Did her research into Scotland begin and end with Braveheart?
Through the miserable lens of Lady Macbeth, men are all predatory ogres and women exist to be brutalised. I say "exist" loosely, as the book sidelines every woman except our spineless heroine. The women unlucky enough to be described are still trolls next to dainty Roscille, with their big shoulders, small hips, and wrinkles. You could excuse some things as being limitations of Roscille's worldview but, seeing how the rest of the book is so ill-considered, I'm not moved to generosity.
I hoped the prose would at least be good, but it's not. I love lyrical, figurative writing but this just has the off-kilter whiff of an author overreaching for "mature and embellished". Just within the first chapter, the sky is "sickishly vast" and "epithet" is used three times in a couple of pages. Characters have quavering frowns and nickering heartbeats. "A dramatic ordeal of blood" appears, followed not long after by "a great ordeal of blood". The same character is described twice as being "miserly with his violence" – a good turn of phrase when seen once, but slipshod when seen again. The barbican grinds open. The barbican grinds open. The barbican grinds open again. The bloody barbican grinds open again. The barbican grinds op–Christ on a bike! The word you're looking for is "gate" and your editor is asleep on the job. I'm also certain Reid doesn't know what "posthumous" means, because her usage of it is repeatedly mystifying.
The word "canny" is overused, which is very funny for a book that disdains everything Scottish. "Canny as a weasel", "the canny mind of a weasel", "a canny animal", "canny as an ermine", "a canny ermine". Hello, editor? Hello? There are a few too many instances of "[noun] is an [adjective] thing", aiming for literary but giving Lightlark. There are endless yawnsome metaphors about slippery lampreys, bloody consummation, and tiles on a draughts board (pieces, surely) to make sure you get the Themes™ and Motifs™, as if you could've missed them.
The book's entire premise – Lady Macbeth being a helpless, reluctant pawn in her powerful husband's schemes – crumbles at the slightest scrutiny, all because Roscille has this pointless mind-control power. All she has to do is look Macbeth in the eye and it's curtains for him. But oh, woe is her, she just can't do it! I kept waiting for some clever reveal – that her hypnotic gaze was a misdirection, something symbolic rather than literal – but it never came. Nope, she just has actual Jedi mind-tricks that she never uses to help herself. Just, what? Calling it a plot hole seems unfair to plot holes.
And don't even get me started on how, the morning after Macbeth finally violently consummates their marriage, Roscille goes skinny-dipping in the woods to wash the blood off, and guilt-trips her handsome prince boyfriend into having amazingly pleasurable sex with her. What crusty old man from the 1980s wrote this?
Lady Macbeth is the slickly packaged definition of "go girl give us nothing". As a retelling, it bears so little resemblance to its source, it's not even a distant cousin. As a historical fantasy, it's as shallow as a Pinterest board and insultingly negligent. I don't know why Reid didn't just fully commit to the "waifish virgin bride meets magical dragon prince" story that this clearly wants to be instead. But then there'd be no "feminist retelling" hook to sell it, would there?
Firstly, the cover is gorgeous. Kudos to Elizabeth Wakou for her work. It's the best thing about this book and this star is for her. Secondly, I hated this book's guts. Feminist retelling this, female rage that – I need to get some female rage off my chest right now. A lot of it.
Feminist in marketing only, Lady Macbeth recoils from everything that made the original character powerful and interesting, offering up a defanged "reclamation" that contorts itself around into baffling misogyny. What is this feministly reclaiming, exactly? What was the author's thought process here? "Wouldn't it be subversive if literature's greatest female villain had no power, ambition, personality, or agency? Isn't that actually doing more feminism? What if she wasn't even a villain, because only men can be bad? What if she was a nubile teenager so beautiful it drove men mad to look at her? What if she really needed a handsome prince to save her? What if her biggest burden was being gorgeous?"
The astonishingly brass-necked blurb says this book "gives Lady Macbeth a voice". Christ. She didn't need one. I cannot imagine the dream-world in which this pablum is doing Lady Macbeth any favours. It's a rebuttal against a version of the character that doesn't exist, against a narrative the author has imagined, to glorify an otherwise nothing story. Reid takes a mature, dominant, challenging, driven woman and mushes her down into soft, bland Teletubby custard to make her palatable and #relatable. This corrective new "Lady" is a demure, gentle, beautiful, naïve, feminine, chaste, goody-two-shoes woman-child who can do no wrong, even though that's all she does.
As well as being a preternatural bombshell, our heroine Roscille is meant to be uncommonly observant and clever, which manifests as her jumping to contrived conclusions, BBC Sherlock-style, and getting dozens of people killed along the way. I started questioning this character's supposed resourcefulness when her first ✨ clever plan ✨ gets a castle full of people slaughtered. She thinks vaguely of this as a minor whoopsie, or even a net positive because the castle would've been full of evil rapist men anyway. No, really. She and the narrative are over it in a couple of chapters.
I feel bad for any Scottish people who read this book. Reid's contemptuous portrayal of Scotland would make a medieval propagandist proud: a godforsaken, barbaric place populated by brutish rapists who speak an animalistic language. The Scottish are essentially written as a subhuman fantasy race. Barely a page goes by without some observation of how they are primitive, uncivil, beast-like, cruel, crass, and loveless. If this was set in a fictional world peopled by monsters, such broad strokes might've been easier to swallow, but, as it stands, this "historical" setting just reads like an American author's lazy Celtophobic delusion. For good measure, Reid drops a jus primae noctis mention in the first chapter. Did her research into Scotland begin and end with Braveheart?
Through the miserable lens of Lady Macbeth, men are all predatory ogres and women exist to be brutalised. I say "exist" loosely, as the book sidelines every woman except our spineless heroine. The women unlucky enough to be described are still trolls next to dainty Roscille, with their big shoulders, small hips, and wrinkles. You could excuse some things as being limitations of Roscille's worldview but, seeing how the rest of the book is so ill-considered, I'm not moved to generosity.
I hoped the prose would at least be good, but it's not. I love lyrical, figurative writing but this just has the off-kilter whiff of an author overreaching for "mature and embellished". Just within the first chapter, the sky is "sickishly vast" and "epithet" is used three times in a couple of pages. Characters have quavering frowns and nickering heartbeats. "A dramatic ordeal of blood" appears, followed not long after by "a great ordeal of blood". The same character is described twice as being "miserly with his violence" – a good turn of phrase when seen once, but slipshod when seen again. The barbican grinds open. The barbican grinds open. The barbican grinds open again. The bloody barbican grinds open again. The barbican grinds op–Christ on a bike! The word you're looking for is "gate" and your editor is asleep on the job. I'm also certain Reid doesn't know what "posthumous" means, because her usage of it is repeatedly mystifying.
The word "canny" is overused, which is very funny for a book that disdains everything Scottish. "Canny as a weasel", "the canny mind of a weasel", "a canny animal", "canny as an ermine", "a canny ermine". Hello, editor? Hello? There are a few too many instances of "[noun] is an [adjective] thing", aiming for literary but giving Lightlark. There are endless yawnsome metaphors about slippery lampreys, bloody consummation, and tiles on a draughts board (pieces, surely) to make sure you get the Themes™ and Motifs™, as if you could've missed them.
The book's entire premise – Lady Macbeth being a helpless, reluctant pawn in her powerful husband's schemes – crumbles at the slightest scrutiny, all because Roscille has this pointless mind-control power. All she has to do is look Macbeth in the eye and it's curtains for him. But oh, woe is her, she just can't do it! I kept waiting for some clever reveal – that her hypnotic gaze was a misdirection, something symbolic rather than literal – but it never came. Nope, she just has actual Jedi mind-tricks that she never uses to help herself. Just, what? Calling it a plot hole seems unfair to plot holes.
And don't even get me started on how, the morning after Macbeth finally violently consummates their marriage, Roscille goes skinny-dipping in the woods to wash the blood off, and guilt-trips her handsome prince boyfriend into having amazingly pleasurable sex with her. What crusty old man from the 1980s wrote this?
Lady Macbeth is the slickly packaged definition of "go girl give us nothing". As a retelling, it bears so little resemblance to its source, it's not even a distant cousin. As a historical fantasy, it's as shallow as a Pinterest board and insultingly negligent. I don't know why Reid didn't just fully commit to the "waifish virgin bride meets magical dragon prince" story that this clearly wants to be instead. But then there'd be no "feminist retelling" hook to sell it, would there?
This is a compilation of pleasant, cheerleading platitudes to encourage writers, rather than a concrete "guide" to anything. It's very, very slight and the references to writing in COVID make it feel terribly dated already, but I liked that it featured input from many different, diverse authors, and the bite-sized sections made it easy to dip in and out of reading. It contains no secrets on how to actually write 1,000 words a day, just PMA stuff that you already know, really.
This is a compilation of pleasant, cheerleading platitudes to encourage writers, rather than a concrete "guide" to anything. It's very, very slight and the references to writing in COVID make it feel terribly dated already, but I liked that it featured input from many different, diverse authors, and the bite-sized sections made it easy to dip in and out of reading. It contains no secrets on how to actually write 1,000 words a day, just PMA stuff that you already know, really.
An underwhelming, annoying book. I love stylised prose with a wide vocabulary; I don't think a book having "windowpane" or "invisible" prose is praise. But this book ain't it. Lines like "the singsong timbre of his voice familiar, the sound of it like a coyote lying about where he’d left the sun" and "jaw sharp as a promise" are twaddle. Somewhere amid all the mixed metaphors is a fun ghost story starring an amusingly messed-up gaggle of exes, but Khaw fails to find it.
Some of this book's sentences are so nonsensical I wasn't sure if they actually contained typos or were just the author trying and failing to be clever. Shouldn't that "every one" be "everyone"? Shouldn't that "poured" be "pored"? Shouldn't "a loci for our celebrations" be "a locus..."? And what the hell is wrong with this first-person protagonist that has her thinking exclusively in tortured metaphors and similes, anyway?
For all the show-offy vocabulary, the author runs out of phrases and mannerisms pretty fast. Everything is sweet, ink, mildew, indigo, froth, rills, and breath. Everyone's mouths and lips are thinning, pinching, slimming, and pinning. Everyone's licking their lips and teeth and running their fingers through their hair. The amygdala, cerebrum, and medulla oblongata are namedropped, just so you know the author's looked at a diagram of the brain and was determined to shoehorn most of it in. The repetitions stick out all the more for how short the book is and how desperately the prose is contrived. A book that consists of around 22,000 words but still manages to make two of them "chiaroscuro" is trying way too hard.
I could forgive the prose's overreaching ambition if it felt earnest, but it's combined with characters who keep ironically lampshading the weakness of the plot. The result just feels like the reader is being held in contempt. If the plot's such a knowing hack job, maybe the author should've spent more time on it, and less consulting the thesaurus? Did they want anything in this story to be meaningful, or to evoke anything approaching real? Is it all supposed to be a big joke, and if so, on whom?
Ugh, whatever. It's short and the cover's cool.
An underwhelming, annoying book. I love stylised prose with a wide vocabulary; I don't think a book having "windowpane" or "invisible" prose is praise. But this book ain't it. Lines like "the singsong timbre of his voice familiar, the sound of it like a coyote lying about where he’d left the sun" and "jaw sharp as a promise" are twaddle. Somewhere amid all the mixed metaphors is a fun ghost story starring an amusingly messed-up gaggle of exes, but Khaw fails to find it.
Some of this book's sentences are so nonsensical I wasn't sure if they actually contained typos or were just the author trying and failing to be clever. Shouldn't that "every one" be "everyone"? Shouldn't that "poured" be "pored"? Shouldn't "a loci for our celebrations" be "a locus..."? And what the hell is wrong with this first-person protagonist that has her thinking exclusively in tortured metaphors and similes, anyway?
For all the show-offy vocabulary, the author runs out of phrases and mannerisms pretty fast. Everything is sweet, ink, mildew, indigo, froth, rills, and breath. Everyone's mouths and lips are thinning, pinching, slimming, and pinning. Everyone's licking their lips and teeth and running their fingers through their hair. The amygdala, cerebrum, and medulla oblongata are namedropped, just so you know the author's looked at a diagram of the brain and was determined to shoehorn most of it in. The repetitions stick out all the more for how short the book is and how desperately the prose is contrived. A book that consists of around 22,000 words but still manages to make two of them "chiaroscuro" is trying way too hard.
I could forgive the prose's overreaching ambition if it felt earnest, but it's combined with characters who keep ironically lampshading the weakness of the plot. The result just feels like the reader is being held in contempt. If the plot's such a knowing hack job, maybe the author should've spent more time on it, and less consulting the thesaurus? Did they want anything in this story to be meaningful, or to evoke anything approaching real? Is it all supposed to be a big joke, and if so, on whom?
Ugh, whatever. It's short and the cover's cool.
Enjoyably varied mix of stories, only a couple of which didn't land for me. I especially liked the killer inanimate objects and the crossovers with ‘Salem's Lot. Some really imaginative and exciting concepts here, even if many lean on the silly side. Rankings by running order:
FAVOURITE: Jerusalem's Lot, I Am the Doorway, The Mangler, Quitters Inc, Children of the Corn, One for the Road
GOOD: Graveyard Shift, The Boogeyman, Gray Matter, Battleground, Trucks, Sometimes They Come Back, Strawberry Spring, The Ledge, The Lawnmower Man, I Know What You Need, The Last Rung on the Ladder, The Woman in the Room
LEAST FAVOURITE: Night Surf, The Man Who Loved Flowers
Enjoyably varied mix of stories, only a couple of which didn't land for me. I especially liked the killer inanimate objects and the crossovers with ‘Salem's Lot. Some really imaginative and exciting concepts here, even if many lean on the silly side. Rankings by running order:
FAVOURITE: Jerusalem's Lot, I Am the Doorway, The Mangler, Quitters Inc, Children of the Corn, One for the Road
GOOD: Graveyard Shift, The Boogeyman, Gray Matter, Battleground, Trucks, Sometimes They Come Back, Strawberry Spring, The Ledge, The Lawnmower Man, I Know What You Need, The Last Rung on the Ladder, The Woman in the Room
LEAST FAVOURITE: Night Surf, The Man Who Loved Flowers