The Thirteenth Tale has made me evaluate the way I review books. Since reading is an escape for me, I tend to base my "ratings" on how entertaining the book was and, consequently, if I would read it again. This book, while it was entertaining, intriguing, well written, was one I probably won't read again. That statement might sound a little contrary, but this book held such a beautiful mystery and, now that the secrets have been revealed and the story is over, I don't feel like it would ever be as good as it was this first time. The jacket states that "The Thirteenth Tale is a love letter to reading..." I can't explain how, but that phrase seems to sum it up well. This book is for those that cringe at the sight of a loose binding or torn page, but simultaneously love a book more for these obvious signs of wear, as they indicate that what lies inside is more than a story; it is a treasured friend, a memory that may as well be your own. Oddly, this is not really what the book is about at all. The story, the tales that are interwoven to create a life, is not about books, exactly.
The characters in The Thirteenth Tale, in looking back, are familiar, yet ordinary. I am not quite sure how I even came to know them; but somehow they pushed though the misty ghost story and delved into me. The conclusion to this book was achingly beautiful. There were loose ends, secrets taken to the grave long before Vida Winter's story began, but somehow the wondering and the realization that there are no answers is a fitting conclusion.
There were some instances of violence and abuse, though not graphic. Wonderful.
No comments:
Post a Comment