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"There was a secret shape to it all that lived inside us, a map that slowly circled within our minds like a personal cosmology."
The thing that really fascinates me about VanderMeer is how his books partially read like poetry. It does make them harder to read, but it is a beautiful experience. In this case, though, I must admit that I wasn't always sure I understood the rules of the post-apocalyptic world the story was set in. It took me relatively long to understand who the Magician was supposed to be (a female drug dealer from another part of town) or how to imagine the Balcony Cliffs (Apartment block where Wick and Rachel live) or why some genetically modified characters had wasps instead of eyes (poetic or meant literally?).
On the other hand, I really loved Borne, the weirdest and sweetest pot plant ever written about who slowly develops the ability to talk and doesn't know who he is and where he came from.
At its essence, this novel is about the love of a mother, and about the pain of seeing your child grow apart from you. The novel never dramatizes the feeling and portrays all characters with respect and authenticity. Even though the child is technically an alien plant, the expression of the Rachel's feelings always appeared very real to me, probably precisely because VanderMeer never states what characters are feeling, but lets you experience it through his poetic descriptions.
There were parts of the book where it felt hard to keep going. I cared too much about Borne, but didn't feel so interested in other characters like the giant bear Mord. On the other hand, I was really digging the ending which is very Shyamalan-style, and I love the environmental science fiction theme. I would still recommend this novel, just because of how strange and wonderful an experience VanderMeer's writing style is. I think his kind of novels are the type you are equally likely to hate or to fall in love with.
"In the beginning, I could remember the childlike delight he took in so many simple things that subsumed or put aside his dread, his fear, his stress. The most hackneyed, clichéd, sentimental things. Like a ray of sunlight or a butterfly. Because that was such a contrast to the brittle quality of his suspicion. The wariness he wore like an exoskeleton, to disguise the shy boy underneath."
The thing that really fascinates me about VanderMeer is how his books partially read like poetry. It does make them harder to read, but it is a beautiful experience. In this case, though, I must admit that I wasn't always sure I understood the rules of the post-apocalyptic world the story was set in. It took me relatively long to understand who the Magician was supposed to be (a female drug dealer from another part of town) or how to imagine the Balcony Cliffs (Apartment block where Wick and Rachel live) or why some genetically modified characters had wasps instead of eyes (poetic or meant literally?).
On the other hand, I really loved Borne, the weirdest and sweetest pot plant ever written about who slowly develops the ability to talk and doesn't know who he is and where he came from.
At its essence, this novel is about the love of a mother, and about the pain of seeing your child grow apart from you. The novel never dramatizes the feeling and portrays all characters with respect and authenticity. Even though the child is technically an alien plant, the expression of the Rachel's feelings always appeared very real to me, probably precisely because VanderMeer never states what characters are feeling, but lets you experience it through his poetic descriptions.
There were parts of the book where it felt hard to keep going. I cared too much about Borne, but didn't feel so interested in other characters like the giant bear Mord. On the other hand, I was really digging the ending which is very Shyamalan-style, and I love the environmental science fiction theme. I would still recommend this novel, just because of how strange and wonderful an experience VanderMeer's writing style is. I think his kind of novels are the type you are equally likely to hate or to fall in love with.
"In the beginning, I could remember the childlike delight he took in so many simple things that subsumed or put aside his dread, his fear, his stress. The most hackneyed, clichéd, sentimental things. Like a ray of sunlight or a butterfly. Because that was such a contrast to the brittle quality of his suspicion. The wariness he wore like an exoskeleton, to disguise the shy boy underneath."