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Writing Wendl...

I really did want to write a light-hearted tale in case this one turns out to be my last novel (assuming it yet becomes a novel), but it's headed currently toward the shadows. I thought I knew Wendl Von Trier pretty well, having trekked with him through my previous book, The Winged Child .   There, Wendl presents as an elusive solitary, moving above all worldly fray while at the same time nudging events and characters toward a satisfactory conclusion. Sharp and intimidating on the outside and tender and motherly on the inside. A friend to the world, something of a trickster, but in all things working for good outcomes.  That is how I saw Wendl VonTrier. A  púka, mischievous, but essentially harmless, even benevolent, capable of presenting in whatever form or gender the moment required. Wendl seemed the ideal candidate to carry readers off into the literary sunset in good spirits after an exhilarating romp through a fantastical fiction. But all along, it seems, there were depths to

What we're reading at our house...


Our lives are populated by spectacular horrors and ordinary terrors. We attempt to live our days in the moments and spaces between. This is the territory where Hiroko Oyamada writes her novels.

The Hole begins with both feet in the ordinary before spiraling off into an engaging, intriguing and finally, profoundly unsettling world where nothing and no one is what they appear. David Boyd, as we would expect from him, delivers another masterful English translation here.


Henry's books.

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