Sunday 5 September 2010

The Petterson book was vivid, evocative, a deeply imagined and felt character study. It also featured an almost haphazard narrative flow, leaping back and forth more or less at random, a narrative voice that was gently reminiscent at best, almost soporific at worst. It was a compelling enough read because of its richly imagined main characters, even gripping at the time, but it somehow failed to leave a distinctive aftertaste of any kind. I remember thinking it was almost too easy to read and it may prove even easier to forget.

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