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thebookboy 's review for:
Picnic at Hanging Rock
by Joan Lindsay
One of my all-time favourite books. Although this was my tenth (maybe more) reread of this gem, I was shocked at how many new details I picked up this time. The cast of characters is always more extensive than I remember, their thoughts and threads of being so part of the rich tapestry that is the mystery itself.
The subtext is gorgeous (and, to be honest, really darn gay in some places - Mike and Albert I'm looking at you) and that just makes every reread all the more compelling. It's a book that doesn't give answers. It's a story that, itself, feels like a dream - separated from reality by a gossamer-thin veil. It's beautiful. It's haunting. It's the sort of tale that clouds the mind and transports you, so that you are there as the schoolgirls ascend the rock, there when hysteria sets in, there as the ripples of the tragedy grow and swell, capturing each character and deciding their fates.
I could speak endlessly about how much I love this story and what it means to me, but to try to succinctly put my feelings in words seems all but impossible. Much like the book itself, they're fragmented, spider-silk, the last petals falling from a jacaranda - a jumble of beauty, feverish and incorporeal.
I hold this book close to my heart for a reason - it's everything I want from a book and more.
The subtext is gorgeous (and, to be honest, really darn gay in some places - Mike and Albert I'm looking at you) and that just makes every reread all the more compelling. It's a book that doesn't give answers. It's a story that, itself, feels like a dream - separated from reality by a gossamer-thin veil. It's beautiful. It's haunting. It's the sort of tale that clouds the mind and transports you, so that you are there as the schoolgirls ascend the rock, there when hysteria sets in, there as the ripples of the tragedy grow and swell, capturing each character and deciding their fates.
I could speak endlessly about how much I love this story and what it means to me, but to try to succinctly put my feelings in words seems all but impossible. Much like the book itself, they're fragmented, spider-silk, the last petals falling from a jacaranda - a jumble of beauty, feverish and incorporeal.
I hold this book close to my heart for a reason - it's everything I want from a book and more.