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A review by leucocrystal
The Worst Kind of Want by Liska Jacobs
2.0
"I want to say, There are things I know that would wipe that smile off your face."
I think this is where I have to admit that Jacobs is decidedly an author, in my book, who falls into the currently very in-vogue trap of writing well, but apparently being terrified of allowing actual compelling plot or great character detail to ever emerge. Her craft is good, and her words flow well, which means she writes quick and smooth reads, but that isn't enough. I have to give a shit about these characters, and I just... don't. This mostly reads like an excuse to revisit a vacation to Italy (and apparently even that is done from a tourist perspective, not actually accurate to the place or the language of its actual people, though it doesn't shock me to find that criticism here; the whole thing overall is so shallow, that kind of fits right in with the bigger issue).
It mostly comes across as rather cowardly in its avoidance of any real conflict, plot, or character depth. Plenty of intruiging avenues are introduced, both situationally and through the characters we meet, but then... very little worthwhile or interesting happens. A woman pathologically fearful of death yet seemingly fated to care for multiple deaths around her seduces a 17-year-old Italian boy is plenty scandalous on paper, but not on this particular paper, because it merely skims the surface of alllll of that potential. It's like dipping a ladle into a possible ocean and coming up with a tablespoon of water. That's it? Really?
What's particularly maddening is that finally some plot and character conflict actually arrives... in the final 50 pages or less. All this ultimately serves up is a rushed ending that again barely skims the surface of all the interesting and dark corners a story like this could've gone. Just when the people in it get interesting and things actually start happening... It just ends. All right then?
Contemporary novelists' seeming total allergy to plot of any kind, so often opting for stylistically commendable navel-gazing at the expense of all else has been tiresome as hell to me as a reader, as it's been on the rise for the past decade to the point where I'm naturally wary of trying any new fiction from untested writers, and this is just another one to toss onto that looming pile. It's unfortunate, because Jacobs clearly has skill, it's just used to achieve almost zero depth, and certainly nothing unique. Every element of this has been done far better elsewhere. I gave this one a shot because Catalina was good enough to pique my curiosity as to what she'd write next, but I don't think I'll be picking up her third, whatever that ends up being. Life's too short for fiction that goes nowhere.
I think this is where I have to admit that Jacobs is decidedly an author, in my book, who falls into the currently very in-vogue trap of writing well, but apparently being terrified of allowing actual compelling plot or great character detail to ever emerge. Her craft is good, and her words flow well, which means she writes quick and smooth reads, but that isn't enough. I have to give a shit about these characters, and I just... don't. This mostly reads like an excuse to revisit a vacation to Italy (and apparently even that is done from a tourist perspective, not actually accurate to the place or the language of its actual people, though it doesn't shock me to find that criticism here; the whole thing overall is so shallow, that kind of fits right in with the bigger issue).
It mostly comes across as rather cowardly in its avoidance of any real conflict, plot, or character depth. Plenty of intruiging avenues are introduced, both situationally and through the characters we meet, but then... very little worthwhile or interesting happens. A woman pathologically fearful of death yet seemingly fated to care for multiple deaths around her seduces a 17-year-old Italian boy is plenty scandalous on paper, but not on this particular paper, because it merely skims the surface of alllll of that potential. It's like dipping a ladle into a possible ocean and coming up with a tablespoon of water. That's it? Really?
What's particularly maddening is that finally some plot and character conflict actually arrives... in the final 50 pages or less. All this ultimately serves up is a rushed ending that again barely skims the surface of all the interesting and dark corners a story like this could've gone. Just when the people in it get interesting and things actually start happening... It just ends. All right then?
Contemporary novelists' seeming total allergy to plot of any kind, so often opting for stylistically commendable navel-gazing at the expense of all else has been tiresome as hell to me as a reader, as it's been on the rise for the past decade to the point where I'm naturally wary of trying any new fiction from untested writers, and this is just another one to toss onto that looming pile. It's unfortunate, because Jacobs clearly has skill, it's just used to achieve almost zero depth, and certainly nothing unique. Every element of this has been done far better elsewhere. I gave this one a shot because Catalina was good enough to pique my curiosity as to what she'd write next, but I don't think I'll be picking up her third, whatever that ends up being. Life's too short for fiction that goes nowhere.