Slade House, the published result of Twitter serialisation, is the tale of evening which occurs every nine years; a guest is invited to Slade House, for what purpose they are unsure.
I haven’t read Bone Clocks, so any relation this book has to the plot went over my head. However, as a contained short story, published on the approach to Halloween, Slade House is both a satisfying chilling and hilarious read. Plus, it served as a nice break from the 800 page whoopers I have been tasking myself with this year.
The mystery of the house I will leave unspoiled. What I will say is that there were parts which filled me with a slight unease. What I’ve always enjoyed in horror, is not what is finally revealed to be behind the door but the slow intake of breath the character makes before turning the door handle. Mitchell delivers expertly in this regard. He also delivers an eclectic group of voices with such fantastic clarity it makes me wonder if he has several personalities rattling around in his brain. He probably does.
The book starts with the grammar, worries and funny observations of a young English boy. Statements containing juvenile classics such as “poo” and “willy” had me unashamedly laughing and then pointing out to others so they could laugh too.
Slade House also has moments of poetry. On page 142 Mitchell makes the “unloved flats of the sixties”, “gasworks” and the “tarmac-grey clouds” hanging over them sound like verse.
With decades of architecture, hairstyles, music and politics to play with, David Mitchell has fun with Slade House and also creates something which may be later serve as an ode to the 21st century psyche.
*How he can fit such range and imagination in 140 characters is slightly baffling.
No comments:
Post a Comment