For the first 400 pages, this book seemed like the perfect beach read. The life at a small motel in the 1950s Vermont was described beautifully. The struggles of a family whose livelihood is destroyed by a highway built nearby made a lot of sense. The way of life of a little town that is demolished by technological progress was of great interest.
The author, however, decided it was too much trouble to tie all the loose ends at the end of the novel and instead came up with an easy answer to the questions posed by the plot: fairy-tale monsters. It’s quite a jarring experience to have the supernatural sprung at you on page 400. Everything before that was extremely realistic, and there was no way anybody could anticipate the appearance of magical monsters.
But this wasn’t even the worst part. What really annoyed me was the source of the evil monstrosity. I’m telling you, folks, you’ll never guess who brought all of this malignant monstrosity to the quiet, peaceful Vermont.
Brits.
Yes, you read right. The British people in the novel carry inside them this genetic disease that turns them into monsters who kill good, trusting, earnest Americans.
I had no idea that the image of evil, scary foreign women who carry inside of them the taint of a disfiguring, incurable disease was even a thing any longer. I don’t even know how to rate this book because this all looks so outre to me.
Well, I have 3 more books in the “entertaining beach reading” category. Let’s see if they are any better.
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