Pretty language and creepy atmosphere mix with a plot I was expecting a little more from. I kept thinking, any minute now... any minute now this is going to blow a part in my hair... any minute now I'm going to think "Where has this book been all my life?" ... any minute now I'm going to see what everyone else sees in this book and cream my acid-washed Jordaches.
And then it ended. Yup...
The unreliable narrator worked well, and the agoraphobic feel of the piece was certainly established... but I didn't really care. There is no doubt that Jackson was a master of vivid imagery. Even if the story was beautifully drawn, there was nothing here that caught my eye. Look at it this way - you can paint the most realistic image of a cantaloupe, a piece of artwork that looks as if you can just reach out and grab one of those gorgeous melons and bite right into that fucker, but at the end of the day, it's only a picture of a fucking cantaloupe. This is possibly my hang up because I was expecting my testicles to explode because of awesome overload and instead they only began tingling slightly. Maybe I'll reread it later in life and come to realize its brilliance.
In summation: I don't see what all the fuss is about, but then again, I've never been a fan of Goth-lit. Shirley J. sets the tone, but, in my opinion, never follows through.
Final Judgment: A relaxing massage without the happy ending.