This is one of those novels where the prose itself is the main event; it’s lush, incisive, sometimes breathtakingly beautiful. Sentence by sentence, the book is a pleasure. The author clearly knows how to craft an image, build a mood, and inhabit a character’s interior world.
But once the beauty of the writing settles, the cracks in the storytelling become hard to ignore.
The first half, in particular, is surprisingly boring. We spend so much time inside the protagonists’ heads, listening to their anxieties, their grievances, their internal spirals, that the narrative begins to stagnate. It’s not introspective in a way that deepens the story; instead, it feels like circling the same drain. The plot depends on these characters doing something, anything, yet for long stretches they simply brood and complain. The result is a sense of inertia that makes the novel’s early chapters feel far longer than they actually are.
When the story finally moves, it does so along entirely predictable lines. Major developments are heavily telegraphed, and the supposed twists land with a kind of weary inevitability. The characters, too, remain uniformly unlikable and sadly not in the captivating, morally complex way, but in a way that makes their emotional struggles feel more repetitive than compelling.
And here’s where my personal frustration peaked: the way the novel treats obsession. Anna’s fixation on Betty is portrayed as ruinous, corrosive, almost pathetic and yet Tom’s obsession with Bill is presented far more gently, even sympathetically. The imbalance grated on me. If we’re meant to interrogate the destructiveness of obsession, why does only one character, the woman, seem to pay the emotional toll? It’s entirely possible that I would have been more open to such an overused theme, but frankly I am exhausted by books outside of the fantasy/SFF genre slapping the sapphic label on a story and then punishing the character responsible for it. Especially when being sapphic didn’t add anything to the story; Anna could have easily been obsessed with Liam and the story would have remained the same: a woman being the scapegoat for men. A tale as old as time. But no, let’s make the gay character the crazy one, how inventive.
Still, the prose is undeniably gorgeous, and there were moments where the language alone carried me through pages I wasn’t otherwise invested in.