The Observer has a review, worth reading, of The Seas by Samantha Hunt:
It’s this book’s emotional expressiveness—generosity, by any other name—that ultimately breaks the mood’s prescribed monotony and lofts it above its precursors. By the end, even the narrator’s sadness is saved from one-dimensionality by insight into her condition, which adds up to a kind of wisdom. "When you are young … sadness can make you feel like you have something to do. Sadness can be like a political cause almost or a religion or a drug habit." Aspiring melancholics, as well as all experimental writers, should be forced to tape that line to their foreheads.
I just ignored some of the rather annoying lines in the review, "I’ve little patience for the 70’s experimental heyday ... Which is why I’m pleased when an author makes me rethink my prejudice. Maybe it helps if it’s a woman;" they only obscure what sounds like an intriguing new novel.


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