69 The Land Of Lost Things by John Connolly
We’re not creatures of flesh and blood alone, no more than a book is just ink, paper, and card. We’re beings of tale and fable. We exist as narratives. This is how we understand the world and this is how we must be understood
This won’t be a bold at the end of the year, it will be a bright and brilliant Gold. It epitomises what books and stories mean to me and have always meant to me.
I was 26 when I read The Book Of Lost Things and you worry, don’t you, that an author might just be cashing in on past glories? I should have had more faith in John Connolly, who consistently writes intricate, thoughtful, deep books with truths at their hearts that go far beyond ‘Private Detective With Tortured Past’ or, in this case ‘Woman With Daughter In Coma Slips Into A Fairytale’.
Ceres sits by her daughter’s bedside, first in hospital, then in a long term hospice facility. Phoebe is in a coma after a texting driver hit her with his car. Ceres fights aside thoughts of wishing the most awful end to it all and finds herself speaking aloud stories from their favourite (mild) fairy tale book. New stories emerge, not in the book and with cruel undercurrents. Proper fairy tales….. Then while exploring the old house where the founder of the hospice lived, a one-eyed rook stalks her, ivy forms a face and shit gets very (un)real.
I had the luxury of reading this more or less whenever I wanted to (thanks Covid, appreciate it you spiky little bastard), which was good, as it flows beautifully. There’s genuine horror, sadness and anger at the destruction of nature in whatever world you might find yourself. Flashes of Pratchettian humour (Rapunzel, a crossbow and extremely helpful rodents) but never twee or derivative.
I’ve a picture on the landing, inbetween my bookcases, of a little girl lying down absorbed in a book, while illustrations from childhood classics swirl around her. This book was the equivalent of that for 52 yr old me.