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A review by pippa_w
Tell the Wolves I'm Home by Carol Rifka Brunt
3.0
I felt like grabbing the paintbrush right out of his hand so I could color him in, paint him back to his old self.
This was a very effective, heartbreaking book about grief in the first decade of AIDS emerging and being recognized in society. It is extremely frustrating that Carol Rifika Brunt throws in a whole bunch of other stuff and ultimately drags down her skilled handling of the topic with a whole slew of half-baked complications.
There is so much Rifka gets right. She leads you through the guilt, bitterness, nostalgia, anger, up-and-down struggle of grief with a gentle but firm hand. She blends in the frustrating and entirely upsetting presence of extreme prejudice and ignorance beautifully.
I do not understand why Rifka clearly felt that her debut novel needed to be so much more than that.
There are arguments to be made, I suppose, for the idea that the main characters needed big back stories and side conflicts to be complete, well-rounded characters. Unfortunately those additional details and plots just did nothing for the main through-line. Whatsoever. It ended up feeling like a half-hearted way to bulk up what probably should've been a shorter novel or even a novella.
I thought about Finn. How he did whatever he wanted. Just like my mother said. He never let the tunnel squash him. But still, there he was. In the end he was still crushed to death by his own choices.
Also - I love Finn and Toby, and I felt intensely protective of them both throughout the book, but they... felt one-dimensional. They were the good, kind guardian angels, perfectly patient and perfectly there - very much like Angel in Rent. Instead of being genuinely complex characters, they are treated like cruel victims of a world for which they were simply too good. It just feels lazy.
This book should've been unmissable. I want to know what Rifka's editors were doing that led to the more bloated parts of the stories being kept in.
'Except... well, except we have AIDS instead of the plague.'
'They're not the same.'
'Well, not exactly, but—'
'Not at all. You couldn't help it if the plague got you. It was nobody's fault. It just happened. Nobody was to blame.'
This was a very effective, heartbreaking book about grief in the first decade of AIDS emerging and being recognized in society. It is extremely frustrating that Carol Rifika Brunt throws in a whole bunch of other stuff and ultimately drags down her skilled handling of the topic with a whole slew of half-baked complications.
There is so much Rifka gets right. She leads you through the guilt, bitterness, nostalgia, anger, up-and-down struggle of grief with a gentle but firm hand. She blends in the frustrating and entirely upsetting presence of extreme prejudice and ignorance beautifully.
I do not understand why Rifka clearly felt that her debut novel needed to be so much more than that.
There are arguments to be made, I suppose, for the idea that the main characters needed big back stories and side conflicts to be complete, well-rounded characters. Unfortunately those additional details and plots just did nothing for the main through-line. Whatsoever. It ended up feeling like a half-hearted way to bulk up what probably should've been a shorter novel or even a novella.
Spoiler
Like, seriously... the little story where June comes to terms that she was in love with her uncle?? Why?? Totally and completely unnecessary. It almost felt like the author was jumping on a soapbox to justify her own feelings for a family member...I thought about Finn. How he did whatever he wanted. Just like my mother said. He never let the tunnel squash him. But still, there he was. In the end he was still crushed to death by his own choices.
Also - I love Finn and Toby, and I felt intensely protective of them both throughout the book, but they... felt one-dimensional. They were the good, kind guardian angels, perfectly patient and perfectly there - very much like Angel in Rent. Instead of being genuinely complex characters, they are treated like cruel victims of a world for which they were simply too good. It just feels lazy.
This book should've been unmissable. I want to know what Rifka's editors were doing that led to the more bloated parts of the stories being kept in.
'Except... well, except we have AIDS instead of the plague.'
'They're not the same.'
'Well, not exactly, but—'
'Not at all. You couldn't help it if the plague got you. It was nobody's fault. It just happened. Nobody was to blame.'