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As a glimpse into Stalinist Russia, this book is fascinating. It follows the lives of MGB agents and their families, the layers of paranoia and secrecy that surround them and the way they rationalize that terror in their everyday lives.

As a serial killer mystery, it starts out gripping and then becomes disjointed and unconvincing. It actually comprises surprisingly little of the book.

The author is much more interested in the portrayal of Stalin’s Russia than in the mystery, and it shows. The result is a very uneven book that ends abruptly and disappointingly. But the characters were so interesting that I still don’t regret reading it—I just wish it had done more with itself.

One of the oldest paperback horror formulas (Family moves to quiet town seeking new life, teenagers encounter seductive evil forces) given a shot of mythology and literature.

This is terrible, but it’s terrible on such a flagrant, over-the-top level that I am really tempted to call troll. Seriously.

See previous entry regarding surreal non sequiturs. Multiply profusely.

This one had less of a cohesive story behind it, the end result being something like reading a bad acid trip.

I’m not sure whether that’s a point for or against.

Interesting concept with a great opening and a less gripping ending. Bentley Little has a habit of periodically forgetting he’s writing a novel and going off on a Lynch-esque tangent of surreal nightmare scenes, then remembering what he was doing and getting back to the story.

I’m not sure whether that’s a point for or against.

I picked this up based on a couple of recommendations, and don’t understand why it was recommended. Very run of the mill paperback horror.

This has become one of my favourite books.

In the midst of Twilight and a sea of other terrible vampire series, a far darker and more traditional tale stands out gloriously. Well, somewhat more traditional—in that this is not a sappy, emo, teenage heartthrob but a good and gory old-school folktale vampire. It actually managed to horrify me in a couple of places, and I haven’t been properly horrified in a long, long time.

Well plotted, well paced. The writing is clear and evocative and the characters are strong. Lindqvist does a remarkable job capturing not just the voice and thoughts of a 12 year old, but of the awkward angry bullied 12 year old so many of us were. The style reminds me of Stephen King’s earliest work.

Have not seen the movie yet. Loved this book so much I am very afraid to see the movie ruin it.

Pretty early on in this book, you figure out the main character’s nasty plan. But you keep reading and that’s because you’re dying to know why he’s doing this, find out the entire story behind the anecdotes he slowly shares. And within that is a twist that you won’t be figuring out as easily.

This book also goes into quite a bit of musing regarding the nature of criticism and its role in art, and art’s role itself, but never in a pedantic way. It never intrudes on the story.

Smart, sick little evening read.

Strange, dreamlike, disturbing—a wonderful mix of fetish and fantasy.

I had never heard of this one before I found it in a used bookshop, and that’s unfortunate. I think it deserves all the recognition of her better-known works. Surreal, unsettling, pure Jackson.

I love Shirley Jackson so freaking much.