What do you think?
Rate this book
The Days of Noah
Belief in the One God is dangerous in Cainlan, a city founded on the worship of the god Cain. But when the daughter of a pagan priestess meets the son of a religious fanatic she is drawn to Shem’s caring manner and deep faith. Eliana believes his assertion that the One God will wipe the earth clean of the corruption that fills it, especially when she discovers a terrifying secret known only to those high in the government’s ruling council. Though desperate to escape her destiny, Eliana’s life has been preordained. Not even Shem’s God can rescue her from the fate for which she was born – becoming the next high priestess to Cain.
375 pages, Kindle Edition
First published August 13, 2013
10 people are currently reading
47 people want to read
About the author
Virginia Smith
123 books350 followersUSA Today bestselling author Virginia Smith has written over fifty books with sales exceeding 1 million copies worldwide. Her book, Guilty Secrets, was recently produced as a movie now streaming on Lifetime. She lives in Kentucky with her husband, 27 chickens, a barn kitty, and a barky Maltese named Max. Learn more about Ginny and her books at www.virginiasmith.org
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
October 17, 2020
Wow, this is such an amazing retelling of Noah. It is a must read for anyone who loves biblical fiction
October 30, 2025
From early 2006 through the COVID-19 years, I immersed myself in the study of comparative religion. It was during that contemplative phase that I read this book.
Virginia Smith’s *The Days of Noah* entered my life like a remembered psalm hummed at dusk — not shouted, not preached, but breathed. It was less a novel than a dream couched in the syntax of faith, its pulse measured in cubits and clouds.
Reading it felt like standing before an ark’s silhouette at twilight, wondering whether salvation or solitude waited inside. In a time when postmodernity delights in fragmentation, irony, and the collapse of grand narratives, Smith does something quietly subversive: she revives the oldest grand narrative of all — the Flood — and invites us to see it not as myth fossilized in moral certainty, but as metaphor, myth, and mystery flowing together like converging rivers.
Noah, in Smith’s telling, ceases to be the patriarch carved in flannelgraph simplicity. He becomes a man suspended between revelation and ridicule — that liminal place where postmodern consciousness also finds itself. The world she paints, teeming with noise and denial, feels eerily contemporary.
The violence before the deluge is not only physical; it’s epistemological. Everyone has their own truth, their own god, their own algorithm of desire. It is a landscape recognizably ours — Babel in beta mode. When Noah’s voice rises in obedience to a divine call, it doesn’t ring with certainty so much as tremble with doubt made holy. Faith here is not the end of questioning; it is the endurance of it.
What makes *The Days of Noah* resonate in a postmodern register is its refusal to draw neat lines between mythic history and moral allegory. Smith crafts a narrative that acknowledges its own textuality. The reader is constantly aware that these are ancient words retold through modern consciousness, where language itself — “the Word” — is both ark and abyss.
As Derrida would remind us, every text carries the seeds of its own undoing, and Smith leans into that instability. Her sentences move like water: reflective, deceptive, shimmering with both clarity and depth. She writes as though the Flood were not an event but a recurring state of being — that every generation lives through its own rain.
In this, she stands in dialogue with Kacy Barnett-Gramckow’s *Genesis Trilogy*, particularly *The Heavens Before* and *He Who Lifts the Skies*. Barnett-Gramckow writes with historical scaffolding and theological certitude; her characters often act as vessels for divine intentionality. Smith, by contrast, allows her characters to drown in ambiguity.
Where Barnett-Gramckow’s world is ordered by divine geometry, Smith’s feels carved out of silence and sediment — a world not fully spoken into coherence. Together, the two authors create a fascinating diptych of faith’s architecture: one crystalline, one liquid. Reading Smith after Barnett-Gramckow feels like stepping from cathedral to cave, from dogma to echo.
There is a moment — small, easily missed — when Noah gazes at the sky, trying to discern whether the gathering clouds signify judgment or renewal. That hesitation, that trembling before the symbolic, is the essence of postmodern spirituality. The text opens itself to multiplicity. The rainbow that later spans the horizon becomes not only covenant but collage — a divine hyperlink connecting past, present, and apocalypse yet to come.
We are reminded of Lyotard’s dictum that postmodernity is incredulity toward metanarratives; yet here, the metanarrative of salvation survives precisely because it acknowledges its fractures. The Flood no longer washes away sin; it exposes the sediment of meaning beneath belief.
Reading *The Days of Noah* during the long isolation of the COVID years lent it an uncanny immediacy. The image of people mocking the builder of an ark while their world decays felt prophetic in retrospect. Noah’s labour — obsessive, unending, absurd to all but himself — mirrored the artist’s task in an age of collapse. Like McCarthy’s father and son trudging through *The Road*, Smith’s Noah walks through moral ash, carrying the fragile fire of obedience.
Both narratives share an elemental simplicity: the world ends not with chaos but with silence, and survival becomes a form of worship. Postmodern theory teaches us that every apocalypse is also a text — the end of one narrative regime and the birth of another. Smith’s book, in that sense, reads like scripture rewritten as metafiction.
Her prose is deceptively simple, its clarity a form of concealment. Beneath the measured rhythm of dialogue and domestic detail, there is a trembling awareness of linguistic failure — that no human word can capture divine speech. “And God said,” the text insists, yet we never quite hear the voice. What we hear is Noah hearing, that mediated echo which becomes the condition of all faith. Revelation arrives filtered through interpretation, translation, imagination — the very hallmarks of postmodern reading. Smith seems aware that she’s retelling a retelling of a retelling; her characters live in that recursive space where myth becomes memory and memory becomes myth again.
The women in Smith’s retelling, particularly Emzara, are not shadows in the patriarchal tent but interpreters of the unsaid. Through their eyes, the Flood transforms from a divine decree into a cosmic act of grief. The postmodern reader cannot help but read the deluge as both cleansing and cruel, a paradox of mercy that annihilates. In Emzara’s quiet resistance, we glimpse what Kristeva might call “the feminine semiotic” — the undercurrent of feeling and flesh beneath the law of the Father. The ark becomes a womb, containing the potential of new narrative forms. Creation, destruction, and re-creation blur into a single pulse of divine breath.
There’s a strange modernity in Smith’s archaic world. Her people farm, love, quarrel, and doubt with the intimacy of suburban neighbours. The sacred here doesn’t hover above life; it seeps through it like groundwater. That immanence recalls David Mitchell’s *Cloud Atlas*, where each era inherits the ethical residue of the one before. The Flood, then, is not final judgment but historical recursion — humanity rebooting itself, hoping to debug sin yet carrying its virus in every cell. Mitchell’s comet-shaped birthmark could easily be traced on Noah’s descendants: a reminder that salvation and self-destruction are twins, forever reenacting Genesis in different keys.
Smith’s theological restraint makes room for literary excess — the very thing postmodernism adores. She allows irony and reverence to cohabit, lets the sacred and the absurd share a table. When Noah argues with his sons about the madness of their task, the scene echoes Beckett more than Moses. “We must go on,” Noah seems to say, “we can’t go on, we’ll go on.” The ark itself is the ultimate absurd structure: a vessel of hope built on dry land, a punchline turned prophecy. In this, Smith finds poetry in paradox — the same paradox that fuels faith and fiction alike.
Stylistically, *The Days of Noah* alternates between lyrical narration and clipped realism, as if Genesis were rewritten by both Isaiah and Hemingway. This oscillation creates a rhythm that mirrors the tides — expansion and withdrawal, revelation and concealment. Her use of repetition — “the rain fell,” “the waters rose,” “the ark floated” — becomes incantatory, almost liturgical. The reader drifts between trance and interpretation. That rhythmic quality aligns the novel with ancient oral traditions while situating it within modernist experimentation. In a sense, Smith’s prose performs the Flood: it submerges the reader in language until breath itself becomes meaning.
The novel’s final movements — the subsiding waters, the raven and dove, the stunned quiet of post-deluge earth — carry an emotional weight that transcends theology. What remains after judgment is not triumph but tenderness. Noah’s family steps out into a world reborn yet haunted, a tabula rasa scribbled with invisible residue. The covenant, sealed by the rainbow, feels both comforting and conditional. The God who promises never again to destroy the earth is also the God who watches as humanity invents new ways to drown. In that uneasy balance lies the brilliance of Smith’s vision. She knows that promises, like texts, are never final; they live only through remembrance and re-reading.
To read *The Days of Noah* through a postmodern lens is to confront our own deluge of meanings. We live, after all, in an age where floods are metaphorical and literal — data floods, media floods, rising seas of both information and water. Smith’s ark becomes the page itself, a fragile vessel carrying stories through the storm. Each reader is a passenger, interpreting the rain. The novel’s insistence on hope — fragile, irrational, persistent — resists the nihilism that shadows postmodern thought. Faith, she seems to suggest, is not a denial of absurdity but a dialogue with it.
Comparatively, where Barnett-Gramckow’s trilogy finds solace in order, Smith finds beauty in uncertainty. Her Noah is less a hero than a question mark walking upright. The book’s moral center shifts from divine decree to human endurance. That shift is quintessentially postmodern: authority decentralizes, meaning multiplies, and truth becomes relational. Yet Smith never abandons reverence. Her skepticism is sacred, her doubt devotional. Reading her feels like kneeling at an altar built from fragments of scripture and shards of mirror — each reflection incomplete, yet collectively radiant.
In the end, what lingers is not the storm but the silence after. The novel closes with a sense of waiting — as if even God were catching His breath. That pause, that quiet between covenants, is where literature lives. It’s the same silence that follows the final page of *The Road*, when the boy listens to the murmur of the sea and wonders what stories the world will tell now. Smith’s silence, like McCarthy’s, is not emptiness but potential — the white space where meaning begins again.
Looking back, I realize why *The Days of Noah* felt so necessary in that contemplative phase of my life. Comparative religion taught me to trace patterns across faiths — the flood myths of Gilgamesh, the purgations of Vishnu’s avatars, the cosmic resets of Mayan and Norse traditions. Smith’s book, though Christian in heart, participates in that universal grammar of cleansing and renewal. But unlike the myths that end in re-creation without remorse, hers carries the ache of memory. The survivors remember what was lost, and that remembrance becomes a form of prayer. In a world that worships amnesia, such remembrance is radical.
Perhaps that is why the novel still speaks, even through the static of postmodern noise. It invites us to read the ancient not as artifact but as mirror. We recognize ourselves in the builders, the mockers, the drowned, and the saved. The Flood becomes the psyche’s weather, recurring in dreams, in politics, in the climate reports scrolling across our screens. We are forever on the verge of rain.
And yet, like Noah, we build. We write. We hope. The ark — whether of wood or word — remains our gesture of defiance against despair. In that act, Smith’s fiction aligns with all true art: it insists that meaning, however temporary, can still be made. The rainbow remains, not as proof of promise fulfilled, but as the spectrum of interpretation itself — each colour a different reading, refracted through the storms of time.
So when I think of *The Days of Noah* now, I do not see it merely as Biblical retelling. I see it as an experiment in faith’s language, a text aware of its own constructedness yet yearning for transcendence. It is a book that prays with postmodern tools — irony, intertextuality, self-awareness — and still manages to touch the divine. Like the ark, it floats between worlds: scripture and story, certainty and skepticism, past and possibility. And in that drifting, it finds grace.
Because perhaps grace, too, is postmodern — a fragmentary gift, glimpsed through rain, reminding us that even in an age of endless floods, there will always be an ark somewhere waiting to be built.
Give it a try, if you choose to.
Virginia Smith’s *The Days of Noah* entered my life like a remembered psalm hummed at dusk — not shouted, not preached, but breathed. It was less a novel than a dream couched in the syntax of faith, its pulse measured in cubits and clouds.
Reading it felt like standing before an ark’s silhouette at twilight, wondering whether salvation or solitude waited inside. In a time when postmodernity delights in fragmentation, irony, and the collapse of grand narratives, Smith does something quietly subversive: she revives the oldest grand narrative of all — the Flood — and invites us to see it not as myth fossilized in moral certainty, but as metaphor, myth, and mystery flowing together like converging rivers.
Noah, in Smith’s telling, ceases to be the patriarch carved in flannelgraph simplicity. He becomes a man suspended between revelation and ridicule — that liminal place where postmodern consciousness also finds itself. The world she paints, teeming with noise and denial, feels eerily contemporary.
The violence before the deluge is not only physical; it’s epistemological. Everyone has their own truth, their own god, their own algorithm of desire. It is a landscape recognizably ours — Babel in beta mode. When Noah’s voice rises in obedience to a divine call, it doesn’t ring with certainty so much as tremble with doubt made holy. Faith here is not the end of questioning; it is the endurance of it.
What makes *The Days of Noah* resonate in a postmodern register is its refusal to draw neat lines between mythic history and moral allegory. Smith crafts a narrative that acknowledges its own textuality. The reader is constantly aware that these are ancient words retold through modern consciousness, where language itself — “the Word” — is both ark and abyss.
As Derrida would remind us, every text carries the seeds of its own undoing, and Smith leans into that instability. Her sentences move like water: reflective, deceptive, shimmering with both clarity and depth. She writes as though the Flood were not an event but a recurring state of being — that every generation lives through its own rain.
In this, she stands in dialogue with Kacy Barnett-Gramckow’s *Genesis Trilogy*, particularly *The Heavens Before* and *He Who Lifts the Skies*. Barnett-Gramckow writes with historical scaffolding and theological certitude; her characters often act as vessels for divine intentionality. Smith, by contrast, allows her characters to drown in ambiguity.
Where Barnett-Gramckow’s world is ordered by divine geometry, Smith’s feels carved out of silence and sediment — a world not fully spoken into coherence. Together, the two authors create a fascinating diptych of faith’s architecture: one crystalline, one liquid. Reading Smith after Barnett-Gramckow feels like stepping from cathedral to cave, from dogma to echo.
There is a moment — small, easily missed — when Noah gazes at the sky, trying to discern whether the gathering clouds signify judgment or renewal. That hesitation, that trembling before the symbolic, is the essence of postmodern spirituality. The text opens itself to multiplicity. The rainbow that later spans the horizon becomes not only covenant but collage — a divine hyperlink connecting past, present, and apocalypse yet to come.
We are reminded of Lyotard’s dictum that postmodernity is incredulity toward metanarratives; yet here, the metanarrative of salvation survives precisely because it acknowledges its fractures. The Flood no longer washes away sin; it exposes the sediment of meaning beneath belief.
Reading *The Days of Noah* during the long isolation of the COVID years lent it an uncanny immediacy. The image of people mocking the builder of an ark while their world decays felt prophetic in retrospect. Noah’s labour — obsessive, unending, absurd to all but himself — mirrored the artist’s task in an age of collapse. Like McCarthy’s father and son trudging through *The Road*, Smith’s Noah walks through moral ash, carrying the fragile fire of obedience.
Both narratives share an elemental simplicity: the world ends not with chaos but with silence, and survival becomes a form of worship. Postmodern theory teaches us that every apocalypse is also a text — the end of one narrative regime and the birth of another. Smith’s book, in that sense, reads like scripture rewritten as metafiction.
Her prose is deceptively simple, its clarity a form of concealment. Beneath the measured rhythm of dialogue and domestic detail, there is a trembling awareness of linguistic failure — that no human word can capture divine speech. “And God said,” the text insists, yet we never quite hear the voice. What we hear is Noah hearing, that mediated echo which becomes the condition of all faith. Revelation arrives filtered through interpretation, translation, imagination — the very hallmarks of postmodern reading. Smith seems aware that she’s retelling a retelling of a retelling; her characters live in that recursive space where myth becomes memory and memory becomes myth again.
The women in Smith’s retelling, particularly Emzara, are not shadows in the patriarchal tent but interpreters of the unsaid. Through their eyes, the Flood transforms from a divine decree into a cosmic act of grief. The postmodern reader cannot help but read the deluge as both cleansing and cruel, a paradox of mercy that annihilates. In Emzara’s quiet resistance, we glimpse what Kristeva might call “the feminine semiotic” — the undercurrent of feeling and flesh beneath the law of the Father. The ark becomes a womb, containing the potential of new narrative forms. Creation, destruction, and re-creation blur into a single pulse of divine breath.
There’s a strange modernity in Smith’s archaic world. Her people farm, love, quarrel, and doubt with the intimacy of suburban neighbours. The sacred here doesn’t hover above life; it seeps through it like groundwater. That immanence recalls David Mitchell’s *Cloud Atlas*, where each era inherits the ethical residue of the one before. The Flood, then, is not final judgment but historical recursion — humanity rebooting itself, hoping to debug sin yet carrying its virus in every cell. Mitchell’s comet-shaped birthmark could easily be traced on Noah’s descendants: a reminder that salvation and self-destruction are twins, forever reenacting Genesis in different keys.
Smith’s theological restraint makes room for literary excess — the very thing postmodernism adores. She allows irony and reverence to cohabit, lets the sacred and the absurd share a table. When Noah argues with his sons about the madness of their task, the scene echoes Beckett more than Moses. “We must go on,” Noah seems to say, “we can’t go on, we’ll go on.” The ark itself is the ultimate absurd structure: a vessel of hope built on dry land, a punchline turned prophecy. In this, Smith finds poetry in paradox — the same paradox that fuels faith and fiction alike.
Stylistically, *The Days of Noah* alternates between lyrical narration and clipped realism, as if Genesis were rewritten by both Isaiah and Hemingway. This oscillation creates a rhythm that mirrors the tides — expansion and withdrawal, revelation and concealment. Her use of repetition — “the rain fell,” “the waters rose,” “the ark floated” — becomes incantatory, almost liturgical. The reader drifts between trance and interpretation. That rhythmic quality aligns the novel with ancient oral traditions while situating it within modernist experimentation. In a sense, Smith’s prose performs the Flood: it submerges the reader in language until breath itself becomes meaning.
The novel’s final movements — the subsiding waters, the raven and dove, the stunned quiet of post-deluge earth — carry an emotional weight that transcends theology. What remains after judgment is not triumph but tenderness. Noah’s family steps out into a world reborn yet haunted, a tabula rasa scribbled with invisible residue. The covenant, sealed by the rainbow, feels both comforting and conditional. The God who promises never again to destroy the earth is also the God who watches as humanity invents new ways to drown. In that uneasy balance lies the brilliance of Smith’s vision. She knows that promises, like texts, are never final; they live only through remembrance and re-reading.
To read *The Days of Noah* through a postmodern lens is to confront our own deluge of meanings. We live, after all, in an age where floods are metaphorical and literal — data floods, media floods, rising seas of both information and water. Smith’s ark becomes the page itself, a fragile vessel carrying stories through the storm. Each reader is a passenger, interpreting the rain. The novel’s insistence on hope — fragile, irrational, persistent — resists the nihilism that shadows postmodern thought. Faith, she seems to suggest, is not a denial of absurdity but a dialogue with it.
Comparatively, where Barnett-Gramckow’s trilogy finds solace in order, Smith finds beauty in uncertainty. Her Noah is less a hero than a question mark walking upright. The book’s moral center shifts from divine decree to human endurance. That shift is quintessentially postmodern: authority decentralizes, meaning multiplies, and truth becomes relational. Yet Smith never abandons reverence. Her skepticism is sacred, her doubt devotional. Reading her feels like kneeling at an altar built from fragments of scripture and shards of mirror — each reflection incomplete, yet collectively radiant.
In the end, what lingers is not the storm but the silence after. The novel closes with a sense of waiting — as if even God were catching His breath. That pause, that quiet between covenants, is where literature lives. It’s the same silence that follows the final page of *The Road*, when the boy listens to the murmur of the sea and wonders what stories the world will tell now. Smith’s silence, like McCarthy’s, is not emptiness but potential — the white space where meaning begins again.
Looking back, I realize why *The Days of Noah* felt so necessary in that contemplative phase of my life. Comparative religion taught me to trace patterns across faiths — the flood myths of Gilgamesh, the purgations of Vishnu’s avatars, the cosmic resets of Mayan and Norse traditions. Smith’s book, though Christian in heart, participates in that universal grammar of cleansing and renewal. But unlike the myths that end in re-creation without remorse, hers carries the ache of memory. The survivors remember what was lost, and that remembrance becomes a form of prayer. In a world that worships amnesia, such remembrance is radical.
Perhaps that is why the novel still speaks, even through the static of postmodern noise. It invites us to read the ancient not as artifact but as mirror. We recognize ourselves in the builders, the mockers, the drowned, and the saved. The Flood becomes the psyche’s weather, recurring in dreams, in politics, in the climate reports scrolling across our screens. We are forever on the verge of rain.
And yet, like Noah, we build. We write. We hope. The ark — whether of wood or word — remains our gesture of defiance against despair. In that act, Smith’s fiction aligns with all true art: it insists that meaning, however temporary, can still be made. The rainbow remains, not as proof of promise fulfilled, but as the spectrum of interpretation itself — each colour a different reading, refracted through the storms of time.
So when I think of *The Days of Noah* now, I do not see it merely as Biblical retelling. I see it as an experiment in faith’s language, a text aware of its own constructedness yet yearning for transcendence. It is a book that prays with postmodern tools — irony, intertextuality, self-awareness — and still manages to touch the divine. Like the ark, it floats between worlds: scripture and story, certainty and skepticism, past and possibility. And in that drifting, it finds grace.
Because perhaps grace, too, is postmodern — a fragmentary gift, glimpsed through rain, reminding us that even in an age of endless floods, there will always be an ark somewhere waiting to be built.
Give it a try, if you choose to.
November 13, 2020
Same story but with a little bit of modern technology. The cities need energy to run the workings of the cities. Where does a pagan civilization get fuel to make the energy to run the cities? In an era of blood sacrifices to a pagan god, will there be deliverance by the one true God? Interestingly good read.
September 13, 2013
MY REVIEW:
This is the first book I’ve read by Virginia Smith, but will definitely not be the last. I was so impressed with The Days of Noah. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this author has created quite a fascinating world and society within this story. I thought the setting was very creative and really out of the box, but also super believable.
I loved the characters! I could immediately empathize with Eliana and the pain she endures over being called to a destiny she does not fully embrace. Her mother is the High Priestess to the false god worshipped within the society, she is very cold and distant towards Eliana, feeding only on the power of her position. i thought it was so sad that she was willing to use her daughter as a pawn in her own game of control. There was definitely no love here in this mother/daughter relationship. Thankfully, Eliana does have her nurse, Girta, who happens to be a believer in the One True God, but will this and her chance encounter with Shem (Noah’s son) be enough to save her ???
I loved the faith conversation that Shem has with his childhood friend, Jarrell. It was so sad that Jarrelll is slipping from the faith he knew as a boy. Unlike Shem, he is blending into the wicked society around them.
I enjoyed seeing Noah and his family in a more real-life way. A family struggling to do what God has called them to do, in a world that has turned their backs on God to worship the false god, Cain. Shem is especially troubled by his encounter with Eliana and wants to convince her of his faith. But can he reach someone who has grown up under the lies of this wicked society for so long???
The Days of Noah is one of my favorite reads of 2013!!! The characters are unforgettable. The storyline is believable. I was so caught up in the emotion of what they were dealing with…the fear, the hurt, the anger, the love.
*****5/5 STARS***** DO NOT MISS THIS ONE!!!!!!!
This is the first book I’ve read by Virginia Smith, but will definitely not be the last. I was so impressed with The Days of Noah. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but this author has created quite a fascinating world and society within this story. I thought the setting was very creative and really out of the box, but also super believable.
I loved the characters! I could immediately empathize with Eliana and the pain she endures over being called to a destiny she does not fully embrace. Her mother is the High Priestess to the false god worshipped within the society, she is very cold and distant towards Eliana, feeding only on the power of her position. i thought it was so sad that she was willing to use her daughter as a pawn in her own game of control. There was definitely no love here in this mother/daughter relationship. Thankfully, Eliana does have her nurse, Girta, who happens to be a believer in the One True God, but will this and her chance encounter with Shem (Noah’s son) be enough to save her ???
I loved the faith conversation that Shem has with his childhood friend, Jarrell. It was so sad that Jarrelll is slipping from the faith he knew as a boy. Unlike Shem, he is blending into the wicked society around them.
I enjoyed seeing Noah and his family in a more real-life way. A family struggling to do what God has called them to do, in a world that has turned their backs on God to worship the false god, Cain. Shem is especially troubled by his encounter with Eliana and wants to convince her of his faith. But can he reach someone who has grown up under the lies of this wicked society for so long???
The Days of Noah is one of my favorite reads of 2013!!! The characters are unforgettable. The storyline is believable. I was so caught up in the emotion of what they were dealing with…the fear, the hurt, the anger, the love.
*****5/5 STARS***** DO NOT MISS THIS ONE!!!!!!!
May 17, 2014
After reading the blurb on the back I placed this book on the bottom if my TBR pile. My 13 year old daughter found it and started reading. She could not put it down and finished it in a couple of days. Then she started begging me to read it so we could talk about it. Finally, I gave in and read it. I could not put it down - it was that good! I don't want to give away any of the story so you need to read this book yourself. But I will say that I felt like I was right there with the characters experiencing everything they experienced. You do have to keep on mind, however, that this is fiction. So just enjoy!
September 27, 2013
The days of Noah is a wonderful retelling of the story of Noahs Ark with a few new twists. Definitely worthy of 5 stars. I love the story from the view of the pagan daughter of the high priestess of Cainlan. Not only is this book entertaining it also brings some modern ideas that really make you think. Once I started reading I couldn't stop. The hardest part has been trying to describe this great book without any spoilers. So I can only say Read this book. You will be glad you did.
April 19, 2016
A really interesting and intriguing take on how we might have been before the flood, and how close to our advancements they may have been. Great world building and descriptive writing and a over all a good setup besides one or two points that I felt were given away early. The ending how ever was rather abrupt and disappointing and to have it go on a bit further or even lead to a sequel would have been nice. Over all it gets bettween 3.5-75 to 4 stars.
May 28, 2015
This is one of my favorite books now! I only finished it two days ago but am, already, telling others they need to read it. I was intrigued by the research the author must have done to make the story authentic. Beautiful, clean romance amongst much action and spirituality. I am looking at other things Virginia Smith has read now.
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews