Regardless, I loved Harrow the Ninth, loved it with my whole heart: its lush and velvety sentences, its wicked sense of humor, its sprawling cosmic world-building, the tragic love story at the center of it all. Confidently I poised my fingers over the keyboard, certain that this novel that is so exceedingly lovable, this novel that I had already read three times, with its necromantic saints and showy metafictional riffs and luridly gothic family saga, would be easy to write about.Īnd then it occurred to me: Did I have any idea what happened at the end? Not in a cliffhanger way, more in like a … basic plot mechanics way? I couldn’t tell that there was anything wrong with Tamsyn Muir’s Harrow the Ninth, the sequel to last year’s Gideon the Ninth, until I sat down to summarize it.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |