There are some books you read where you know incredibly swiftly that you absolutely LOVE them. You get about a quarter of the way through and find yourself totally entranced by just how much you’re enjoying every single page, but it’s an entrancement mixed with a kind of niggling dread where you whisper to the book: “Please don’t let me down! Please don’t let me down!”
You sit there reading and desperately praying: “Please don’t be this good and then tumble away to crap! Don’t do an Icarus and crash to Earth, your second half being a pale shadow of your brilliant early self. Please don’t! Please don’t!”
That was my experience on reading THE END OF MR Y.
And fortunately it really, really didn’t let me down.
There are some books that you just connect with. You get them and they get you. I am genetically pre-programmed to enjoy reading about a young, mixed up, red-headed academic and her quest for meaning in life. But more than that, the unashamed bibliophile part of me was always going to be excited when that quest led to her tracking down the last copy of a seemingly cursed book.
It goes almost without saying that I was always going to love a book packed with such wonderful sentences like: “Monday morning, and the sky is the colour of sad weddings.”
While even when this novel swerves into fantasy – which at other points in my life I’d have found a turn off – it hit me in the perfect place. My mind receptive to every turn. In short this is a book which felt written specifically for me.
Okay, even though I loved it, I can’t imagine that it’s going to be a perfect match for everyone, it certainly won’t fit like a literary glove to everybody’s tastes – but if you are on the right wavelength, this is a truly beautiful, fantastical, intelligent and amazing piece of work.