Smart Bitches Trashy Books | All of the romance, none of the bullshit.

Uncomfortable? Does romance do that?

Good question. Generally I personally don’t look for romance to give me a major case of the squicks, particularly since this book is trying to do so deliberately, I think. I have to be in a specific mood to read, for example, an author I know to be emotionally demanding of the reader. I was not expecting that from this book, even given the cover summary.

That said, some of my favorite romances are those that made me think deliberately and with some difficulty on larger themes, particularly issues of sexuality. This book could have been one of those, but wasn’t.

Plot details please?

Verity Ashton, known in London as infamous courtesan Soraya, is currently under the protection of Justin, aka the Duke of Kylemore. Soraya is Kylemore’s idea of a perfect woman and wants to throw societal expectations into the Thames and marry her. But he is horrified to return to her townhome to find that she’s disappeared.

Verity had chosen a life as a courtesan out of necessity, and longed to save up enough money to escape into anonymity into the English countryside. When she gets her chance, she doesn’t expect to see Kylemore again, much less that he’d come looking for her.

Kylemore not only finds her, but kidnaps her, dragging her to his most remote estate in Scotland, where he attempts to forcibly recreate the relationship they had in London.

“Forcibly recreate?”

Yes, it’s an anagram for “Or by Carefree clit.”

Also, an allusion to a scene and section of the book where in “forcibly” comes damn close to, if not becomes, rape.

Rape in romance? How do you define that?

That’s part of the controversy, I think. In the larger history of the genre, there’s a lot of subtle variations of sexual dominance: for example, there’s forced seduction of a not-always-very-resistent heroine, tied-her-down rape by a villain (especially prevalent in old bodice rippers), and rape by the hero, usually redeemed by a great deal of groveling.

Where this scene fits into the varying types of sexually dominant scenes is part of the problem, I think, that leads to the wildly varying reactions to the book.

One reader I discussed the novel with posits that it’s not rape so much as forced seduction along the lines of BDSM, though I don’t know that I agree with that since I don’t think Verity agreed to any of it.

Personally, I think it was rape. But my discomfited reaction to the book is not based on that fact.

So what are the flaws that bothered you?

One reviewer on Amazon said the following: I think most people who dislike this book will do so based on the plot, and not on the writing skills of the author.

My problems are with the writing skills of the author in finishing what she started in terms of writing a believable ending for these characters, both in terms of development, and in terms of finale. Part of necessary writing skills IS plot, and this plot left a lot to be desired. The alleged rape scene aside, my problems are all with the story arc itself.

First, I think the rape scene was meant to be read as rape. Justin forces himself on Verity, and in one respect the book is about exploring the balance of sexual power between a protagonist pair whose relationship is based largely on sexual and commercial transaction. She was his courtesan; he was paying for her lifestyle in return for sexual favors. Removing the commerce of that relationship and attempting to replace it with traditional emotional connection and romance was more difficult than Kylemore anticipated (to say the least!) and he didn’t take into account that the person he was with in Soraya wasn’t the real, whole, or even complete woman.

Campbell’s attempt at the exploration of sexual dynamics in a romance is a huge undertaking, and I can respect her ballsy decision (no pun intended) in taking on such a potentially prickly (again, no pun intended) plotline.

Dude. Flaws? Hello? Quit skirting the question.

Ok, my three major problems with this book:

1. The heroine: Stockholm Syndrome much? She kept repeatedly seeking to excuse or explain or even come to sympathetic terms with his actions against her body, even as he treated her heartlessly - complete turnaround from his behavior prior to her removal from London. And what was the underlying message of the consequences of that removal - that you cannot Run from True Love or it will find you and force you to have sex whether you want to or not?

Furthermore, in the end, the character that could have developed the most, from a sexually provocative courtesan to a staid “widow” to a blending of the two into a much more vibrant and real character, developed the least.

2. The Hero: “Rebalancing” was a major element to this plot, and really, the sexual exchange of power was like being on a ship that had absolutely no port-to-starboard stability. Kylemore’s actions were so dastardly, so cruel, and so callous, that by the time the backstory of his motivation and his apology rolled into the reader’s view, it was too little, too late, and he was much, much too awful to ever be redeemed in my eyes. Campbell created a hero who was already somewhat pathetic, and made him completely unredeemable.

As I wrote in an email discussing the book:

“The imbalance in positions of power shifted back and forth but then toppled to one side. First, Soraya was in possession of slightly more power due to her emotional detachment and position as a courtesan - an ironic possession of power because as the ho, she should have been in his control and possession. She knew she planned to leave and had no intentions of permanence, while he was clearly mad for her - literally.

Then she escaped him for a time, living in deeply treasured autonomy while he socially ruined himself looking for her. Then he kidnaps her, forces her in all manner of situations trying to regain some of his pride and what he thought was his control over their relationship, and in doing so, creates an untenable situation: he is in possession of more physical power because (a) he can get her to respond against her will, (b) she can’t really successfully fight him off because, well, he’s bigger than she is, and (c) he’s got the penis what’s doing the raping.

By the time he has seized the sexual and emotional power from Verity, and then realizes his error and attempts to return to morality, so to speak, it’s impossible for sexual and emotional balance to be restored between them, in my opinion. It’s not so much complementary strengths developing on each side as it is the power struggle inherent in dominating sex - the idea that rape is about power, not sex, specifically. He repeatedly uses sexual force and manipulation to achieve power over her in such a way that there’s no restoring him in my eyes to any possibility of honor by the end of the book.”

3. The Ending: How in the name of potpourri was I was supposed to buy a happily ever after for disgraced lord and his now-noble courtesan? For one thing, I could see them twenty years in the future with her carrying this deep emotional scar from when her beloved husband scared the shit out of her and emotionally abused her for awhile. Can you imagine that ammo in an argument? “Oh yeah? I didn’t shine your shoes properly? Well at least I didn’t KIDNAP AND RAPE YOU, huh, dude?!”

And for another, what about their future? Were they going to embark on the Child-Free movement of their age? Because Lord knows no one would ever socialize with their children, what with the ass-backwards-but-still-happening-even-now judgment of an individual’s Quality based on who their parents are/were. The son or daughter of a humiliated Lord who married his ho? Forget it. The daughter’s season will be miserable if she’s even let in the door of the Duchess’ cousin’s maid’s little sister’s chimney sweep’s house. I can’t see a happy ending, and there’s really no way to achieve one unless they leave the country and pursue anonymity in every regard. Otherwise, the both of them are too infamous and too likely to be subjected to total ostracization for there to be a hint of permanent happiness for them, let alone their offspring.

And what about The Scene in Question?

The scene in question isn’t as memorable for me now that I’ve read the book as the disappointment that more could have been done to make this an extraordinary novel. I’m not surprised it’s created the rancor and brouhaha that it has, as Campbell attempted to challenge head-on some very large issues in romance, including rape, sexual power, virginity, prostitution, and social status. I didn’t read the scene in question and chuck the book at the wall; I thought, “Now that hero is in a deep moral hole (no pun intended) and this author will have to work hard to redeem him.” I don’t think the work was done: I think Justin made too quick a turnaround in his regret, and too fast a realization that oops, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to use force on Verity. That coupled with the other flaws I mentioned made this book far less satisfying than it could have been. I’ve got no beef (N.P.I.) with angsty romance, even if I didn’t expect it when I picked up the book. But for all the angst, there has to be adequate emotional redemption and satisfaction for the development of the protagonists, and I didn’t get that in the ending of this novel.

So what’s your grade, Beeyotch?

A C-. Interesting characters who each rebelled against standard romance stereotypes plus a tremendously interesting and challenging plot made me hopeful for the potential of a better ending, but at the final page I was left disappointed that the hero didn’t sufficiently offer expiation and restoration of balance to the heroine in their relationship. I could not believe in the tranquility of their happy ending.

*note: Thanks to Candy for letting me bogart her Q&A style review technique. Made it a lot easier to organize and decipher what I wanted to say. 

As I said, once I agreed to be entertained by the campy aspects, the more nitpicky plot points - why does Kyra let go of her worries, her homesickness, and her old life so easily? - were answered by a mental shrug on my part, mostly because I began to not only enjoy the utterly over-the-top sexuality and society of Tryston (or as I called it, Planet Nooki’e!) but consider the story on the whole as an exploration of female fantasies of sexual subjugation. There are some women who would get mighty turned on at the idea of being attentively cared for by multiple warriors who are not permitted penetration, or at the idea of a mate who is bound on a profound level to their sexual gratification and fulfillment, even if that mate was frequently heard to ask, “Who owns you? Who is your master? Whose cock do you wish to fill your moist channel? Who is the sole possessor of the remote control?” Ok, not that last one but you get the point. Even the over-possessive masterful sexx0r talk certainly could corner many fantasies for female readers, and I have to give Black credit for creating a vehicle in Kyra for discovering that domination can be sexually liberating. Kyra has to adjust to a very male-dominated culture, not just in language and habit but in dress - her official garb as Empress and High Queen is a see-through boob scarf and skirt and just about every warrior she encounters is expected socially to admire her openly with blatantly lustful expressions and comments on her “woman’s pelt” and “fire-berry nipples.”

Of course, within that subjugation of women is a bit of female control - a camp-inflated version of the All Controlling and Healing Vagina, if you will. Once a warrior finds his Sacred Mate, his appetite for bound slaves and kefahs (enchanted sand women whose purpose is bringing men and women to their peak. Repeatedly) just about disappears and he becomes manfully fixated on making his wee woman happy, sated, and solely his. By the time Kyra accepts her new position as mate, empress, and often-humped object of Tor’s sexual desire, she realizes that she wields some influence over Tor - though not enough influence to prevent a large misunderstanding & misadventure that constitutes the climax of the story. That said, if scenes that are not bondage-related but do involve verbal domination and female subjugation are not your thing, this will not likely sexually titillate or interest you.

What dropped this book in my ratings was the villain. Candy and I have often joked and grumbled that the easiest way to create a villain is to make him pure evil: Ugly. Mean. Greasy, even. And an abuser of animals. It’s usually the scene animal abuse that serves as the first clue to a villain. In this case, it’s not animal abuse but sexual abuse and murder of children. What jarred me to badly was that the villain and the conflict arrived very late in the story - at times I was wondering if there was going to BE a conflict or if the bulk of the story was Kyra’s adjusting to life on Planet Nooki’e - and when the villainy arrived, it was sweepingly awful and left me nauseated. The insurgent leader, Ty, decimates a sector, and when Tor and his brothers arrive, he finds the leader’s name scrawled in blood, and observes in detail young boys who were sodomized and left to die from their injuries, young women raped and strangled, and older women and men left in various states of massacre. It yanked me out of the campy “anything goes” attitude with which I’d been enjoying the book, and left me angry and sick. It seemed too easy a way to create a villain, even so late in the story. Ty himself doesn’t appear at all, except through holograms and in the aftermath of his evilness, and he’s not scary enough or enough of a threat to the protagonists. And the resolution that solves the problem of his insurrection happens off-stage, leaving only his actions to resonate in the reader’s mind, and not nearly enough retribution for their pain and fallout. After page following page of nonstop horny happy sex and voyeurism and lots of humping and oral sex in the bathing chambers, to be yanked out of the goofy over-the-top sexuality into child rape and murder seemed like a quick and shabby - and overly simple and unnecessary - way to create a villain, or emphasize his evilness.

Moreover, I didn’t understand the reason for the contrast between sexually explicit exploration of female domination and the use of sex as a tool of violent domination over children. I get it - sexual domination isn’t always good or always bad but has a place within consensual activities - but no need to hit me over the head with it.

Further, because the villain makes his awful appearance 3/4 of the way through the story, the conflict presented by his insurrection seems an afterthought and not at all a required development to the protagonists’ story. His removal and the resolution of his story line do equally little to change anything or advance any depth to the relationship between the protagonists, and the experience of that particular turn to the novel’s plot left me far less pleased with the overall experience of having read it.

Yet my disappointment will not stop me from finding the sequels and reading them as well. Credit goes to Black for creating secondary characters who are multi-dimensional and interesting enough in their individual motivations and personalities that I want to find out what happens to them and to revisit Kyra and Tor as their siblings’ stories continue.

Sorcha, as the future queen, has been hidden in the innocent simplicity of a life in the convent, and as a result hasn’t had to grow up much or mature beyond her responsibilities as a novice- responsibilities that don’t include kingdom-running. She was educated by her grandmother, the dowager Queen, but she still has a great deal of trepidation at leaving the convent, and would prefer to pick the easy, though cold and windy, route than journeying home to a kingdom she hasn’t set foot in for years. But she has to leave the convent, because her identity has been discovered, and her life is in danger. She must run, hide, and find her way back to her kingdom to save her life and the lives of her people.

Arnou, it turns out, is Prince Rainger in disguise (don’t worry, I’m not spoiling anything. It’s revealed in the back cover copy) and is desperate to find and marry Sorcha so he can redeem himself and recover his country from a cruel despot who took Rainger’s throne in a humiliating coup. Rainger needs the stability of the Beaumontagne army, and the support of its people, to rescue his own, and he needs Sorcha to accomplish his ends. 

And there you have a few of my favorite romance storylines, tied up together: secret identity, and journey romance. I love the romances where someone hides who they are for whatever reason though I prefer it be a somewhat lucid motivation driving the idea. I love watching people reveal their true selves while hiding in plain sight, particularly when the someone hiding is someone whose presence would attract a great deal of attention. And I equally love journey romances that take place on a quest or on the road to a destination. While it’s easy to place a hero and heroine on the road, unsupervised, without parents or social demands watching over them at every moment, it’s also enormously effective at cutting right to the heart of the attraction between two people.

So with The Prince Kidnaps a Bride, we have Sorcha wishing she could hide in the convent, and, once she leaves it, wishing she could somehow reveal her identity as the Crown Princess without bringing her life into more immediate danger. Rainger (and you know I had to force my eyes to see the “i” and thus not picture a Cuban bounty hunter) needs to overcome some dreadful discretions that cost him his kingdom, and save the oppressed people who aren’t sure they can even count on him as a ruler or savior.

Thrust the two of them onto a dangerous assassin-filled journey home to their respective kingdoms, and it’s potentially delicious: he doesn’t want her to know who he is because he knows she’ll see him for the callous bonehead he was in his youth, and she’ll rightly assume he’s only interested in her because of her kingdom. He’s enjoying being a more simple version of himself, while keeping her safe and learning who she is. Meanwhile, Sorcha is drunk on the freedom of life outside the convent, and rushes headlong into any social interaction she can, since she’s been talking to the same handful of nuns for years. She thinks that Arnou couldn’t possibly understand her position as a royal, so she is herself as she had been at the convent. And beneath all that hidden agenda, they fall in love.

I wish the book had lived up to the delicious promise, but alas it did not. The biggest loss for me as a reader were the huge jumps in time: there were large gaps after an almost-daily accounting of their adventures from the convent to the ship that would take them home, like once they got to the ship it could warp time and drop them months into the future. Bam! We’re home! Bam! It’s the future! Bam! Prepare for the nursing home, Sorcha!

How would they manage becoming, or returning to an existence as royal betrothed as opposed to hunted fugitives? How did they transition? There’s little mentioned to reveal how their future romance would survive, even though that future is so very different from the beginning and foundation of their relationship. That’s the problem with many on-the-road romances: once the journey is over, I wish the hero and heroine would remove themselves from the static environment of their homes that stifles their romance and forces them to hide behind roles and expectations, and get back on the road already. Once the journey is over, the romance changes, and I wanted assurance that the romance that they had would survive that change.

Sorcha herself is perfect perfect perfect. She charms hos. She outwits horse sellers (with the intimidating yet hidden presence of Rainger behind her). She befriends everyone, even the most jaded, hardened person in town, and Rainger is driven batty trying to keep up with her and keep her from getting herself killed. Her innocence becomes grating even as she ponders and discusses her role as a ruler, and her education that prepared her for that life. At times, I wanted to smack her: Yes, dear, you’re going to have to rule a kingdom, so it’s time to grow up, grow a spine, and stop discussing blow jobs with the hos.

I did love the hero, but I’m a sucker for the flawed hero confronting his own foibles and committing himself to redemption, even as he nurses the same selfish intentions with Sorcha. She’s a means to an end, and he does make the mistake of saying so.

The best part of the book was the setting: the pressure of royalty and the expectations from others that genuinely affect the motivations of the hero and heroine. They were both crown royalty, born to leadership, but both have to work to restore themselves to their positions, and thus Dodd ensured that both characters earn their royal status in the readers’ eyes - smart move.

I also enjoyed the different questions and definitions of honor that surrounds the hero, and the heroine. They each had to resolve questions of their own worth in the face of future responsibilities, that is, if they could overcome the obstacles that stood in their way. To have a heroine who will be queen face similar issues as the hero when examining self worth and duty was entirely refreshing, and I have to believe that any person born into a position of monarchical authority would face similar doubts. Add to that a rich imagery of faith, and the idea that honor and love can protect your life, and I probably would have arrived at a better grade.

Because of the themes of worth and leadership that surround the protagonists, The Prince Kidnaps a Bride is more complex than most romance novels. I wanted to rank it higher since it did give me more to ponder, and gave me that rumination in the form of a empathetic hero and charming heroine. But there were too many “but’s” standing in my way, not the least of which was the resolution of the story of other two lost princesses. Add to that large gaps in storyline, and a feeling of a slow journey and a very rushed final denouement, and I arrived at a grade that, while not bad, isn’t as stellar as it could have been.

Sarah: HA! You crack me up. Seriously.

I liked her a lot when she was a male running around the desert, and I’ve been able to sympathize with some of her motivations, but what I don’t get is how Kinsale is writing one big mis after another. It’s camped out on the border of flawed characters right before moving into stubbornness for stubbornness’ sake.

So what made you want to smack a bitch?

Candy: Yes, I liked her when she was in pants as well. Once she was in England, she went beyond headstrong into DOWNRIGHT MENTALLY ILL. Seriously. She made me cringe so hard. And the misunderstandings do pile on, don’t they? The thing is, they’re character-driven. It’s not like, “Oh, she won’t talk to the hero because...because she just won’t!” Zenia is a headcase, and what she does is absolutely convincing--and really, really maddening.

I really like Arden, though. I wish he could’ve found himself somebody healthier and more appreciative of him.

But this is from reading the book 10, 11 years ago.

Sarah: You know, I agree. But I think the Character-Driven Big Mis is easier to take because I know why it’s happening. i.e. she’s a nutjob because she was forced into one life by her mother, then was forced into another life by Arden’s mother, and really never figured out who she was. But it’s all very subtle - and certainly she was horrifically abused as a child so that her actions toward lunacy make sense.

But when she’s screaming at Arden that she bundles her daughter up to her ears and then heats up the room because she’s afraid of losing her after she thought he was dead, you’d think he’d get a clue. And you’d think that he would understand how alien she felt, English in the desert, Arabic in England, and cut her a break. He’s a bit of a self-absorbed butthead, in the sense that he can’t understand that she feels just as he does, and he KNOWS that, but won’t remember it at crucial moments.

His knowledge, actually, bugs me. He knows Bedouin customs, and he knows the marriage laws are different. Why hasn’t it crossed his doofy mind that she would worry that he would put her aside? He’s more English than he thinks, because he can’t believe she’d even think of such a thing, and she’s more Arab than she thinks, because she can’t get over fearing that he’d reject her.

Candy: Oh, man, I totally forgot about that scene. Ooof.

The thing is, Arden has been abused, too. And he reminds me in a lot of ways of a lot of intensely shy, intelligent, self-conscious people I know who were raised by stern, overbearing parents: he’s inordinately sensitive to some cues, and completely oblivious to others.  Most of them seem more likely to pick up cues of disapproval than cues of approval/love. Honestly, it’s the same problem with Zenia, too. I’ve seen this over and over in real life with various friends of mine. And it’s a credit to Kinsale that she renders this so convincingly and instinctually.

Damn, I really need to re-read this book. Maybe not now, because I’m not feeling up to diving into the bowl of dysfunction that’s Zenia and Arden, but I’m really curious to see if my impressions have held true over the years.

Sarah: It’s certainly a bowl of fucked-uppedness. And I can’t figure out if my feelings of frustration with the characters are the point of the story, because I have to admire them for the multi-facetedness of their emotional misery, or if I’m frustrated because I think their actions disagree with their motivations as characters. Pardon my blasphemy, but did Kinsale get some of their actions wrong, or am I just frustrated along with the two of them?

A heaping spoonful of empathy on the part of either one might help, and I have to downgrade the book in my mind every time I see them come close to a resolution and then notice that I have a good half-inch or more of book to read so no, it’s not a real resolution. It’s temporary or at least a conduit to yet another conflict, and I feel like I’m reading a soap opera where the tension is beginning to seem sustained just for its own sake. No happiness for either of you! Ever! Neither character has any room for vulnerability, and I can understand that, but at the same time, there are moments of great kindness and empathy on each of their parts, but not at the times when it would be most useful. Since I know from previous scenes that it’s within their capabilities, seeing yet another inch to go with more bullheaded obstinancy on either part makes me nuts.

To quote a character from the tv show How I Met Your Mother: “You like him, he likes you, happiness doesn’t have to be so hard!”

But given that I just read her diatribe on conflict and wussiness in romance reader’s expectations, I have to wonder if I am prejudiced against the conflict. The piles of little things working against them create a complicated, tangled agony, and really, at some point, there has to be a break where she can just listen to him, for the love of God. As the agony continues, I’m with you on the smack-a-bitch lineup.

Candy: And regarding Kinsale’s diatribe about conflict, and whether or not TDH represents wussiness on your part because you find it uncomfortable: I don’t think it does. I certainly don’t think it does with me. I’m one of the most masochistic readers I know. Pain? Angst? Mistreatment? Misunderstanding? FULL-ON DYSFUNCTION? BRING IT, BEYOTCH. Two of my all-time favorite romances are Seize the Fire and The Windflower, and given what the heroes put the heroines through in those two books, I don’t see how anyone could accuse me of not enjoying conflict, or flinching away from a book because I’m a tender widdle flowah who wants nothing but hugs and puppies and kisses in my reading material.

But TDH is different. TDH feels GRINDING. TDH exhausted me. It’s like seeing a codependent relationship played before your eyes. And it’s so maddening because you feel like the characters should be smart enough to break out of those spirals of destructive, hurtful behavior, but they don’t.

I think the difference between this book and the others is that they had more external conflicts that helped break up the action and inject some levity, and also because there were more good times than bad times. I could get why Merry wanted to stay with Devon, or why Olympia stuck with Sheridan. But Zenia and Arden? They had a brief idyll in the beginning of the book, and the rest of it’s pain, pain, pain.

Sarah: If you were grading it, though, what grade would you give? I’d have to say at this point, C+. Big ups for amazing writing, and truly lyrical and evocative descriptions to the point where I’d linger over paragraphs of description and then want to skip the dialogue because someone was going to say something obstinately bullheaded and I’d get irritated with them. I even emailed Kinsale because I’m a dork like that - even though I am having all kinds of frustrations with the characters motivations vs. their actions, I am mollified by the quality of the writing that I want to keep reading it, even if just to roll around in the prose like a kid in the leaf pile.

But down I go when it comes for the unending conflict - you were so 100% right when you said, “The characters should be smart enough to break out of those spirals of destructive, hurtful behavior, but they don’t.” I keep returning to a point where I ask myself, “Should he/she know better than to choose this course of action when they demonstrated some ability to accurately interact with this character a moment ago? Is it consistent with their character or is this just throwing more angst in the big pot of woe for the sake of super-sized angsty flava?”

It’s like one of those arguments you have where both parties are nearing hysterical temper and start firing outrageously random verbal bullets because at this point it’s just habit replaying itself - only it’s the TWO-THIRDS OF THE DAMN BOOK.

However, it’s still a testament to the quality of the book that I think about it that much. It’s not like I circle back and forth about the characterization of other heroines or heroes all the time that I’m reading. Kinsale’s characters are usually written at 500 dpi while the rest are at 72 or maybe 150, so I feel almost insolent criticizing them.

Candy: In terms of grade, I’m inclined to give it a B-. The writing and characterization are brilliant, but when it comes down to it, I didn’t really like Zenia, though Arden was a good deal more sympathetic to me--perhaps because he wasn’t so shrill, and perhaps because Zenia reminds me of the very, very worst aspects of myself writ large. And mind you, I don’t really need to LIKE the characters in order to like a book, but when it comes to a romance novel, I have to be invested in their happiness, and the dynamic between Arden and Zenia frustrated me too much for me to do that unreservedly. I can’t give it anything less than a B, though, because I had such a strong reaction to the characters, and because when I rooted for them, I rooted for them HARD. And because the ending just killed me with its sweetness, and gave me just a little bit of hope for the two of them. It speaks well of an author, that I talk about characters in such a way, and that I feel so frustrated with them precisely because they’re so alive to me.

And as for whether the conflicts were for conflict’s sake: again, it’s been a while since I read the book, but I remember that not being a problem with me. It didn’t feel contrived. And that, in a nutshell, is probably why that book captured me and maddened me at the same time.

Sarah: I’m resting at my final grade of C+, because, as you said, the writing was good and I was so invested in the characters, but I had a few problems with the ending, though it was indelibly sweet.

For one thing, what was her growth? Did she heal? Admitting that she had a problem, a big huge psycho problem, and that she needed his help? I felt the ending wasn’t solidified by enough foundation, and as you said last night, can I believe that they’ll last into neverending permanence? Not really. And with all the suffering, I wanted that reassurance.

In the end, I have to say, harshness towards the angst and the heroine aside, this was a marvelously written novel about two very flawed people who, despite being frustrating to read about, I rooted for. I wanted their happiness, even if it seemed they couldn’t be bothered to want it for themselves. It’s moving, detailed, vivid, and possesses some of the best descriptions and scenes I’ve read in awhile. But like any Kinsale novel, it’s not a book you put aside lightly. It’s an experience.