Book Review-Sharp Objects

“I think some women aren’t meant to be mothers. And some women aren’t meant to be daughters.”~Gillian Flynn

I’ve been out of the loop on this blog for a while but I’m going to review/talk about some books that I’ve read over the last few years that I found to be good reads.

If you haven’t read any of Gillian Flynn’s books, you should. However, be forewarned, her characters are not the nicest people you’ll ever encounter.

Let me start with Sharp Objects. This was Flynn’s first book and it was a doozy. I don’t think I’ve ever read a more disturbing book. Let me clarify, Sharp Objects isn’t disturbing in the “horror” sense. It’s not overtly bloody. It’s certainly not “spooky” or otherworldly in any way. However, in a human way, Sharp Objects is just downright nasty.

The author seems to have culled the worst traits of human beings and embodied them into her cast of characters. Fortunately for us, the readers, it works. This is first and foremost, a mystery. There are enough suspects to keep you guessing although I think that any astute reader will immediately narrow down their list of suspects rather quickly. The end may surprise you. I suspected who had done it shortly after I started reading but I did not anticipate the depravity of the conclusion. It was satisfying in a small way but I was so wrung out by the time I’d finished reading that I almost didn’t care who the killer was.

That’s not to say I didn’t want to keep reading once I’d started. The frailty of the human being is shoved into our faces and we’re forced to watch as the main character attempts to maintain a fragile grasp on her sanity as the parade of human atrocities assault her, and in turn us.

I can’t say it was an enjoyable read but it was an engrossing read. Regardless of how engrossing it was I don’t think I’ll ever read this one again.

Happy 200th Birthday, Mr. Dickens

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities