I am sick of all the haters reviewing J K’s book and crying about it not having magic or spewing vitriolic idiocy about it being a socialist manifesto with fruity language. Of course there’s f$&@ing swearing, it’s about REAL life and NEWSFLASH, most people swear in the course of their ‘real’ lives. Whereas, on the other hand, most people tend NOT to board their broomsticks to work and subsequently cast their most loathed colleagues into peril through a casual flick of a wand. The magic is right there, in the brilliant prose and the powerful storytelling.
I adored All the HP books and I also adored this book. I could not put it down. I loved the way Rowling walks into people minds and verbalizes their internal dialogue, making the characters at once real or “authentic”, as Fats would say, and simultaneously creates an internal struggle within your own psyche, about whether these flawed people are likeable, detestable or simply a scary mirror unto ourselves.
Anyone who has experienced loss, as I have, can place themselves inside Dr Jawanda when she learns her closest friend and ally is dead…
Everything had shattered. The fact that it was all still there – the walls and the chairs and the children’s pictures on the walls – meant nothing. Every atom of it had been blasted apart and reconstituted in an instant, and it’s appearance of permanence and solidity was laughable; it would dissolve at a touch, for everything was suddenly tissue thin and friable.
She brilliantly catches the class struggle, eminently readable through the vaguest of bodily twitches in English society, but completely suppressed from being audible by staunch English manners.
Howard and Shirley were clothed, always, in an invisible layer of decorum that they never laid aside.
And it IS as Jan Moir so inarticulately points out, bleak – but, only in as much as it is hopeful, as tragic as it is comic. Just like England, there are stark contrasts, between the rolling green country side and filthy estate housing, yet dwelling within are similar struggles to make sense of the senseless, logic out of insanity. I love her description of the relationship between Krystal and her guidance counsellor that mirrors my own experiences working as a student counsellor in disadvantaged schools..
Nearly two years of gossamer fine trust, laboriously spun between them was stretching, on the point of tearing.
I laughed, I cried, and I looked in the mirror and thought, “God, I’m not Colin am I?” Her clever narrative is a fast paced roller coaster that carries you on a journey that’s uncomfortable, yet reassuring, hopeless yet brimming with optimism.
Ruth busied herself with the teapot, waiting for the billowing atmosphere to shrink back to it’s usual proportions.
The tiny village of Pagford is a microcosm of everywhere you have ever been and allows you to view the world through the multiple lenses of many complex and ingeniously crafted characters.
But tears had blurred Krystal’s eyes. The ward with its high windows dissolved into white light and shadow, she seemed to see a flash of brilliant sunlight on dark green water, fragmented into brilliant shards by the splashing rise and fall of oars.
So F&$£ OFF Jan Moir you daft, right wing, twat. To Rowling I say, bloody well done, and, more please!