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3.95 AVERAGE
3.95 AVERAGE
Very intense and very disturbing. Read with courage. Clever symbolism.
beautiful, brutal...Maori phrases mixed into poetic prose...I've always wanted to live in Kerewin's tower by the sea
The last 10% of this book has some interesting things in it. The first 90% covers a surprisingly small number of events in smug, looping, wordy, verbose, pseudo-poetic prose. If you like a house being described as, "the oscillating wave thrumming in the nothingness of every atom's heart," then you'll like this book.
The main character is a terrible Mary Sue living on an independent fortune made by painting, of all things. She is a connoisseur of alcohol, herbal treatments, mushrooms, tobacco, & knives. She is very well-read and speaks at least three languages. She is an expert boat technician, fisher, carpenter, gardener, sculptor, stonemason, fist fighter, guitarist, & cook in addition to painter. She has extensive collections of jewelry and mystical ephemera from all over the world. She is able to get through to a wild child that no one else seems able to reach. She says whatever she wants whenever she wants and wins every argument she starts. She can entertain crowds with songs that she makes up on the spot even while extremely drunk. She lives in a literal seaside tower, for pete's sake. Kerewin is the walking wish-fulfillment of every wannabe self-sufficient witchy woman out there.
*SPOILERS AHEAD*
Yet despite all these blessings Kerewin's a sour pickle that spends most of her time drinking heavily and feeling sorry for herself because she's alienated from her family. Why? We never find out. It's all fixed by the end, and we never find out exactly how that happened either. It might have made an interesting story.
As it is, she meets the wild child mentioned above and his long-suffering, abusive adopted father. Do they start to warm the cockles of her sour heart? You bet they do. This takes hundreds of pages despite it being practically pre-ordained.
After this stretched-out trope of typical cranky-hermit-learns-to-love, there is a surprising and shocking turn of events which gets us to the meatier part of the book, but it's a long time coming. There's a mystical section that's interesting but sort of unrelated to the rest? The abusive dad obtains some magical stone and then it's never mentioned again? And then everything's wrapped up very tidy in a brief little sliver at the end that feels rushed and pat.
There's some nice writing hidden amongst the puffed-up, self-satisfied wordplay. And there are some interesting windows into Maori culture. That's about it.
The main character is a terrible Mary Sue living on an independent fortune made by painting, of all things. She is a connoisseur of alcohol, herbal treatments, mushrooms, tobacco, & knives. She is very well-read and speaks at least three languages. She is an expert boat technician, fisher, carpenter, gardener, sculptor, stonemason, fist fighter, guitarist, & cook in addition to painter. She has extensive collections of jewelry and mystical ephemera from all over the world. She is able to get through to a wild child that no one else seems able to reach. She says whatever she wants whenever she wants and wins every argument she starts. She can entertain crowds with songs that she makes up on the spot even while extremely drunk. She lives in a literal seaside tower, for pete's sake. Kerewin is the walking wish-fulfillment of every wannabe self-sufficient witchy woman out there.
*SPOILERS AHEAD*
Yet despite all these blessings Kerewin's a sour pickle that spends most of her time drinking heavily and feeling sorry for herself because she's alienated from her family. Why? We never find out. It's all fixed by the end, and we never find out exactly how that happened either. It might have made an interesting story.
As it is, she meets the wild child mentioned above and his long-suffering, abusive adopted father. Do they start to warm the cockles of her sour heart? You bet they do. This takes hundreds of pages despite it being practically pre-ordained.
After this stretched-out trope of typical cranky-hermit-learns-to-love, there is a surprising and shocking turn of events which gets us to the meatier part of the book, but it's a long time coming. There's a mystical section that's interesting but sort of unrelated to the rest? The abusive dad obtains some magical stone and then it's never mentioned again? And then everything's wrapped up very tidy in a brief little sliver at the end that feels rushed and pat.
There's some nice writing hidden amongst the puffed-up, self-satisfied wordplay. And there are some interesting windows into Maori culture. That's about it.
I have mixed feelings about this book. I can see why some people love it. The relationships between the characters themselves, their small moments together, are riveting. When Hulme pushes towards larger symbolic meaning, however, I don't think it quite works. I also found the writing to be too scattered and didn't buy the magical realism at the end. It's not that I do not enjoy works that push narrative boundaries—I read Split Tooth this month and enjoyed it tremendously—but in the case of The Bone People, all of the poems and asides felt like bloat.
Stunning. I think a mark of a good book is characters that really stick with you. I've been dreaming about Simon P. The characters are so raw and complex and complicated and you leave with so many unknowns but in a way I think that makes them even more real. And life is weird and so many shades of grey. I think that's the biggest takeaway. People aren't good or bad, they're often both. That makes us all human.
challenging
dark
emotional
mysterious
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
The format takes some getting used to. It was easier to understand the story when I realized that the characters were presented in a mix of spoken and interior dialogue.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Child abuse
Sometimes a book makes you think “am I taking crazy pills?” This is that book. A Booker prize, a Pegasus award, and a 4.0 rating.
Was I reading the same book as everyone else?
To clarify you can basically summarize the book with this question; “do you think that an adult man should be able to beat his elementary school aged son into a coma because his emotionally disturbed childhood delinquency is a pain in the ass?” “Do you believe, like every apparent other character in this story, that since he’s really sorry and the kid doesn’t have any other family, that he shouldn’t have had him taken?”
The other elements like the inventive wordplay and interspersing of identity investigation can not make up for the blatant child abuse apologetics that are woven into the text.
I did some research on the text after finishing and found that actually this book is quite divisive, including on the Booker committee the year it won the prize.
Was I reading the same book as everyone else?
To clarify you can basically summarize the book with this question; “do you think that an adult man should be able to beat his elementary school aged son into a coma because his emotionally disturbed childhood delinquency is a pain in the ass?” “Do you believe, like every apparent other character in this story, that since he’s really sorry and the kid doesn’t have any other family, that he shouldn’t have had him taken?”
The other elements like the inventive wordplay and interspersing of identity investigation can not make up for the blatant child abuse apologetics that are woven into the text.
I did some research on the text after finishing and found that actually this book is quite divisive, including on the Booker committee the year it won the prize.
"'If you push him hard enough, he'll fight you to make you understand. It's his last resort, spitting and kicking... he'll do his damndest to punch into you what he wants to say. That's bad, I know, you know,' wagging a finger at the boy, 'but he's still trying to talk to you,' lifting his eyes to Kerewin, 'you know?' - The Bone People, Keri Hulme
Kerewin Holmes - local eccentric and cantankerous artist - has built herself a tower in the New Zealand marsh to live in solitude when a strange, mute boy and his mercurial foster father crash into her isolation and make themselves at home. But Simon and Joe have dark pasts and a troubling relationship, and as Kere comes to care deeply for them both, she is forced to reconcile the trauma and violence simmering in each of them as they become inextricably bound to one another.
(cw: domestic violence, child abuse) This was potentially my most challenging read of 2019, both in prose and in content (please take the content warning to heart if those are difficult topics for you). Written in 1984, Hulme speaks to questions we are publicly grappling with on a difficult scale over 30 years later: when violence permeates a relationship, a family, a society, how do we protect and heal ourselves and others while holding the perpetrators accountable? What if the person hurting us is someone we love deeply? But then she takes it to a place that feels more uncomfortable: If violence seems the only way to communicate some great hurt, can it be translated or entirely avoided? Can or should we forgive those who perpetrate the greatest harm? It's a fine line to walk, and after falling in love with this book and this family in the first 2/3, one horrific moment almost made me put it down to never return. But I did, and I'm glad I did. Hulme acknowledges we live in a world where people do terrible things, and we must decide what is done with those people, who makes that decision, and what healing means.
I also think this book's exploration of (mis)communication is fascinating - rather than the rom com trope of only hearing part of the story, these characters know everything they can about one another; it's just the words and language each uses fundamentally does not connect to meaning for the listener. Simon's inability to speak expands his access to expression both creatively and violently. Kerewin's poetic and metaphorical diatribes never quite speak directly to the point. And when Joe's flowery and sincere declarations of love fail, he substitutes with drink and his fists. This is a violent and sad book about connection and disconnection, forgiveness and healing, and the worst things that can happen to us and how to come back.
Pair with Nothing to See Here (for a lighter hearted story about difficult children) or A Little Life (for an exploration of abuse and trauma) - also consider giving this a read if you wanted to like Where the Crawdads Sing (but didn't)
Kerewin Holmes - local eccentric and cantankerous artist - has built herself a tower in the New Zealand marsh to live in solitude when a strange, mute boy and his mercurial foster father crash into her isolation and make themselves at home. But Simon and Joe have dark pasts and a troubling relationship, and as Kere comes to care deeply for them both, she is forced to reconcile the trauma and violence simmering in each of them as they become inextricably bound to one another.
(cw: domestic violence, child abuse) This was potentially my most challenging read of 2019, both in prose and in content (please take the content warning to heart if those are difficult topics for you). Written in 1984, Hulme speaks to questions we are publicly grappling with on a difficult scale over 30 years later: when violence permeates a relationship, a family, a society, how do we protect and heal ourselves and others while holding the perpetrators accountable? What if the person hurting us is someone we love deeply? But then she takes it to a place that feels more uncomfortable: If violence seems the only way to communicate some great hurt, can it be translated or entirely avoided? Can or should we forgive those who perpetrate the greatest harm? It's a fine line to walk, and after falling in love with this book and this family in the first 2/3, one horrific moment almost made me put it down to never return. But I did, and I'm glad I did. Hulme acknowledges we live in a world where people do terrible things, and we must decide what is done with those people, who makes that decision, and what healing means.
I also think this book's exploration of (mis)communication is fascinating - rather than the rom com trope of only hearing part of the story, these characters know everything they can about one another; it's just the words and language each uses fundamentally does not connect to meaning for the listener. Simon's inability to speak expands his access to expression both creatively and violently. Kerewin's poetic and metaphorical diatribes never quite speak directly to the point. And when Joe's flowery and sincere declarations of love fail, he substitutes with drink and his fists. This is a violent and sad book about connection and disconnection, forgiveness and healing, and the worst things that can happen to us and how to come back.
Pair with Nothing to See Here (for a lighter hearted story about difficult children) or A Little Life (for an exploration of abuse and trauma) - also consider giving this a read if you wanted to like Where the Crawdads Sing (but didn't)
This book (and its characters) is going to stay with me for a long time.
This book is so incredibly impressive. It took me a little while to get through it (I'm not one for slow-paced literature), but the dynamic between Kerewin, Joe and Simon kept pulling me to at least read a little further along.
So did anyone else figure the Kere Holmes/Keri Hulme similarity?
I didn't find the ending as satisfactory as I'd hoped, on the other hand, it did fit the book really well. The addition of Maori made the story so magical for someone like me with no knowledge of the Maori culture.
So did anyone else figure the Kere Holmes/Keri Hulme similarity?
I didn't find the ending as satisfactory as I'd hoped, on the other hand, it did fit the book really well. The addition of Maori made the story so magical for someone like me with no knowledge of the Maori culture.