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Some while ago, I did this for Sharp Teeth: I reread it and, though I have yet to re-review a book, I couldn't stop myself from making an impassioned, loving post in its honor—a second recommendation, more emotional, a bit revised, and just as passionate. It's interesting then that around the same time I discovered Barlow's wonderful Sharp Teeth, I also discovered another novel—and both of them immediately jumped to my list of favorite books, and they are still there now.
I am currently rereading Lane Robins's Maledicte. I have spoken of this book before—in my review, as well as a number of passing mentions since then. But coming back to it now, I can't help but take a moment to talk about it again.
This is perhaps my fifth reread of the novel. The first time I read it, I loved it. I treasured every chapter from the first to the last, and recommended it highly. Other rereads have been a smooth slide back into the dark but comforting world of the book, unraveling familiar intrigues, enjoying favorite characters. But for whatever reason, this reread is better even than the first.
When I first reviewed Maledicte I compared it to dark chocolate—and the comparison stands. It is as rich, as dark, as bittersweet as the best chocolate. It's easy to slip into, easy to get lost in, but this time I am reading it in small chunks and—like small bites of bitter chocolate—it seems best served that way. Because this time each scene, each sentence, has been striking me at my core.
Maledicte's gender is more fluid and more cleverly wrought than ever before. Never before has his journey towards revenge been more trecherous, more dangerous, more frustrating. Maledicte is sharper, stronger, so much more vulnerable. Vornatti is wiser, weaker, more lecherous. Gilly has never been so good a man, his relationship with Maledicte more fragile or more touching. And then when Maledicte and Janus meet again...
( This quote may be considered a spoiler. )
These words, they sing to me. They are lush, throaty, low, a sound as sensual as a lover's breath. They are beautiful. Much of one's taste in literature is personal and subjective, so I'm thankful for the quirk of taste that makes Maledicte nearly the perfect book for me. Faultless? No. But on this reread I am so enraptured, so swept up in my love for it that I could not think to ask for better. But enough of my bombast. I could praise the book a dozen ways and still never capture my love for it. In its darkness, its passion, in its beauty and decay, I love this book. I love it more now than ever. I recommend it wholeheartedly.
And now I turn back to it, for another bite.
I am currently rereading Lane Robins's Maledicte. I have spoken of this book before—in my review, as well as a number of passing mentions since then. But coming back to it now, I can't help but take a moment to talk about it again.
This is perhaps my fifth reread of the novel. The first time I read it, I loved it. I treasured every chapter from the first to the last, and recommended it highly. Other rereads have been a smooth slide back into the dark but comforting world of the book, unraveling familiar intrigues, enjoying favorite characters. But for whatever reason, this reread is better even than the first.
When I first reviewed Maledicte I compared it to dark chocolate—and the comparison stands. It is as rich, as dark, as bittersweet as the best chocolate. It's easy to slip into, easy to get lost in, but this time I am reading it in small chunks and—like small bites of bitter chocolate—it seems best served that way. Because this time each scene, each sentence, has been striking me at my core.
Maledicte's gender is more fluid and more cleverly wrought than ever before. Never before has his journey towards revenge been more trecherous, more dangerous, more frustrating. Maledicte is sharper, stronger, so much more vulnerable. Vornatti is wiser, weaker, more lecherous. Gilly has never been so good a man, his relationship with Maledicte more fragile or more touching. And then when Maledicte and Janus meet again...
( This quote may be considered a spoiler. )
These words, they sing to me. They are lush, throaty, low, a sound as sensual as a lover's breath. They are beautiful. Much of one's taste in literature is personal and subjective, so I'm thankful for the quirk of taste that makes Maledicte nearly the perfect book for me. Faultless? No. But on this reread I am so enraptured, so swept up in my love for it that I could not think to ask for better. But enough of my bombast. I could praise the book a dozen ways and still never capture my love for it. In its darkness, its passion, in its beauty and decay, I love this book. I love it more now than ever. I recommend it wholeheartedly.
And now I turn back to it, for another bite.
