Burn by Peter Heller
★★☆☆☆
Fancy. Mechanical. Glib. Its technicality was the book’s artistic death.
Burn had all the elements of an ideal literary novel but lacked the soul to hold it together.
The story began with promise. Two “friends,” Storey and Jess, went on a moose-hunting trip in northern Maine and emerged from the wilderness to find the world changed. Towns were burned to the ground, people were dead, and a civil war had closed off their path home.
Sounds thrilling, right?
Unfortunately, the most interesting thing about Burn was just that - its premise. Everything else felt flat, stiff, and frustrating.
I didn’t enjoy Heller’s writing style overall. I love exactness-say what it is. Don’t dance around it. I appreciate clarity in literary writing. Authors who use clean, complete sentences win me over quickly. It was George Orwell who said, “Good prose should be as clear as a windowpane,” and I agree. Still, there were moments of beauty that made me pause and ask, “Was this book written by one person?” For instance - the last paragraph of the first section of Chapter 4 stole my heart. It didn’t make sense how moody the writing was - at times brilliant and clear, and other times glib, disjointed, and trying too hard.
Overall the writing was technically sharp but emotionally distant. The prose often read like it was trying too hard to be profound. Dialogue felt choppy and at times pretentious, offering little depth beyond surface-level intellectualism. It seemed like the book knew what a novel should include and plugged those things in: philosophical musings, bleak trauma, vague relationships - but with no real heart or cohesion.
There were glimmers of poetry. Lines that made me stop and admire what this book could have been:
“How deep I love is about the depth of my ability and not the other person.”
“I think love is all about the subject, not the object.”
“Anything too cute always seemed to be hiding something.”
“That was the thing about living: there didn’t have to be one. You put one foot in front of the other.”
“Because, though I cannot come up with a great reason to live, I have no patience for people trying to kill me.”
But those were exceptions. The rest of the novel felt over-engineered - less like storytelling and more like literary performance. It was moody in a self-important way. Stoic in tone, but with no emotional payoff. And the deeper themes, including unsettling ones like statutory rape and adultery, felt more written in for shock value.
In the end, Burn felt like a template novel trying to pass as a literary masterpiece. It had the bones, but not the blood. It read like a macho exercise in technique, as if Heller had a contractual obligation to write a book and filled in all the checkboxes:
• Gripping premise ✔️
• Bleak ending ✔️
• Overlong dialogue ✔️
• Rationalization of a shocking act ✔️
• Dense, verbose sentences ✔️
• Soul? ✖️
Even with all the right ingredients,it didn’t feel like anything. It was oddly soulless and mechanical, mirroring its emotionally muted characters. The book offered urgency in concept but delivered apathy in execution.
It lured, but didn’t serve.
The best thing I got from Burn? A few new words I’ll probably never use.
In the end, it burned itself to the ground. Not thematically. Just technically.
#TheBookClubMadeMeDoIt