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A review by awesomelybadbooks
Ruby by V.C. Andrews
4.0
Ruby Landry's life has always been a mystery. Raised in the bayou (Houma, Louisiana) by her Grandmere Catherine - a healer, of sorts - she had always wondered about her mother Gabrielle, her mother's death, and a mysterious father that she never had a chance to meet. Ruby and her Grandmere lead a simple life marked by handmaking crafts to sell to tourists on the side of the road, going to church every Sunday, and sometimes being called upon by those in the community to help those who are sick or injured as Grandmere Catherine is well-respected in the community as a woman of some spiritual power, some spiritual knowledge. They survive with no help from Ruby's Grandpere Jack - an inebriate that has done something so horrible in the past that Grandmere Catherine cast him from their home long ago and can hardly stand the sight of him. Bit by bit, Ruby grows more and more curious of what happened before her birth. Why is Grandmere Catherine so intent on Ruby not seeing the local boy Paul Tate? Why does Grandmere have so much contempt for Grandpere? Under Grandmere's Catherine pending death, the truth is finally revealed to Ruby. With Grandmere gone and under the thumb of Grandpere Jack, all the lies and secrets take Ruby to New Orleans to meet her father and twin sister for the first time! There, she is spun into the web of more lies to protect the Dumas family name and treated cruelly by her vile twin sister until everything comes to a head.
Written by a ghost writer - and, as stories go, penned with the influence of unfinished work that Andrews left behind - there is so many things fundamentally wrong with this book that I can't help but to find guilty pleasure in it. Let's start off by saying, V.C. Andrews' work is always wrong on so many levels especially during the late 1970s, through the 1980s, and into the early 1990s. It just is. It didn't matter if it was written by Andrews herself or the ghost writer, there is just so much wrong with these books. So much. From the continual fish out of water trope. The incest. There always being an uber-bitch that you love to hate in the story. Right down to the very wrong, one-dimensional way that black characters are written. So wrong. So many levels. Yet every story is like a train wreck that you can't help but to sit back and watch with wide eyes. These books fall into the category of so bad that they're good. I don't know if that make me an awful person or not, but I can't help but be fascinated by this work. For a lot of men and women of a certain age, reading these books was a rite of passage. They were considered taboo. I am of that certain age and it was like I was transported back to 1995 because I think that's when I last read this book. It held up better than some other V.C. Andrews books I've read. Maybe because the ghost writer is a better writer than the actual woman, herself, was? I don't know.
All I know is, this is pure trash and I loved every minute of it.
Written by a ghost writer - and, as stories go, penned with the influence of unfinished work that Andrews left behind - there is so many things fundamentally wrong with this book that I can't help but to find guilty pleasure in it. Let's start off by saying, V.C. Andrews' work is always wrong on so many levels especially during the late 1970s, through the 1980s, and into the early 1990s. It just is. It didn't matter if it was written by Andrews herself or the ghost writer, there is just so much wrong with these books. So much. From the continual fish out of water trope. The incest. There always being an uber-bitch that you love to hate in the story. Right down to the very wrong, one-dimensional way that black characters are written. So wrong. So many levels. Yet every story is like a train wreck that you can't help but to sit back and watch with wide eyes. These books fall into the category of so bad that they're good. I don't know if that make me an awful person or not, but I can't help but be fascinated by this work. For a lot of men and women of a certain age, reading these books was a rite of passage. They were considered taboo. I am of that certain age and it was like I was transported back to 1995 because I think that's when I last read this book. It held up better than some other V.C. Andrews books I've read. Maybe because the ghost writer is a better writer than the actual woman, herself, was? I don't know.
All I know is, this is pure trash and I loved every minute of it.