one of those odd books that i end up liking only after the fact, after long contemplation. i was expecting a writing style as bold and imaginative as that of room or slammerkin, but found instead something much more flat and even toned. makes for slow reading but in hindsight i can see why it might work better that way.

historical fiction can be hit or miss with me. often it is the (self-trumpeted) meticulously researched work that feels the most like a fraud; facts and figures are made to stand in, like fetishized army regimentalia, in place of any sustained consideration of the flesh and bone underneath. this is not one of those books, but i'm having a difficult time trying to explain why. if the flesh and bone of a story is its language, then i think this book succeeds in showing that the past is all perception, structure, discourse, context...how a thing is said, how it is recorded.

and yet i didn't like this as much as i liked her other books. maybe because this one feels too glib at times, the morals too easy? i'm not sure. going to mull over it a little more.

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oh hey! turns out emma donoghue has got a phd in english lit!