A review by billyjepma
The Fisherman by John Langan

challenging dark emotional mysterious reflective sad tense slow-paced
  • Plot- or character-driven? A mix
  • Strong character development? It's complicated
  • Loveable characters? It's complicated
  • Diverse cast of characters? No
  • Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes

4.5

"How could something sacred be bad?"

Like all good stories that take up the torch of cosmic horror, this is a slippery, unsettling, captivating descent into horrors too big to name. It's more literary than many of its genre peers but also leans into its genre more than any "literary" book would, which means it's essentially the ideal book for me. Langan is a helluva writer, pairing rich prose with dense descriptions that force you to submerge yourself in his storytelling if you want to keep the reins. The story-within-a-story structure of the book is a two-edged blade: its secret weapon and the one thing with the potential to hurt its impact. It was very much the former for me, as the two stories are less about the events that transpire and more about the ideas they confront. But in the same breath, I can admit that the third act, where the original story returns, is notably weaker than the material preceding it. The story moves so quickly in those final 80 pages that the revelations and developments lack the same teeth that the rest of the book uses so well. It still worked for me, though, as evidenced by the score above. There's an inevitability to it that feels appropriate for the scale and subject of the book, so while I would've happily read more, I appreciate how things ultimately unwound, too.

What might impress me the most about this book—which I'm obviously a fan of and will undoubtedly linger in my mind for quite some time—is how fluidly it embraces its influences while differentiating itself from them. Langan takes the horrific ideas of Lovecraft and pairs them with Stephen King's penchant for grief-stricken protagonists who are a hairsbreadth away from disaster, but the book is entirely Langan's front-to-back. The quality of his writing is superb, striking a delicate balance between poetic and needle-sharp that would also feel right at home read aloud by a campfire. The book also isn't that scary, at least not in a traditional sense, but is interspersed with a looming, impenetrable sense of foreboding that worms its way under your skin. I haven't lost sleep over scary stories since I was a kid, but I'd be lying if I said that—when preparing to go to bed—my mind didn't linger on the darkness Langan writes of here. 
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