
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
I really wanted to like this one more. I’ve been reading and enjoying Charlie Jane Anders for years, and normally I really love her work, but this one was just a bit too messy for me. Though, to be fair, Jamie, her protagonist, does confess to being quite a messy person, but those around her are often just as messed up if not more so. And I’m not just talking about the post truth trolls feeding her and her family into the ever hungry right wing outrage machine, but also about the family who continues a cycle of generational trauma, still a very common theme in fiction these days. I’d probably have liked this book more if it had focused more on the secrets of 18th century literature, because it’s clear that that’s one of Anders’s special interests, and was easily the most fascinating part of the book by light years. But this is not that book, and yet because it’s Anders, I’ll be generous and round up from 2.5 to 3 on this one.
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