The writing wasn’t very tight, but I appreciated the different perspectives and I loved the setting, so I didn’t mind spending longer there, whether or not someone needed to sharpen their line-editing skills.
In the evenings, reluctant to see another body discovered, even if only on the page, I would return to the David Guterson. I wonder how Snow Falling on Cedars would do if it was published today.
I think readers would have higher expectations of the courtroom drama (post-Scott Turow, post-John Grisham). But the themes of injustice are still exceptionally relevant. I couldn’t help but sigh at this simple statement: “People don’t have to be unfair, do they? That isn’t just part of things, when people are unfair to somebody?”
What I loved most about it was the love story, which I hadn’t been expecting. And I appreciated the steady and deliberate exploration and resolution of the plot, how it wasn’t really so much about the conclusion, as it was about the process of various individuals finding their way towards closure. Did I love it enough to read another of his books? Maybe. But, for now, I’m glad to have read this one.
Beyond these two, which you recommended to me, I have one to recommend to you: Maggie Shipstead’s Astonish Me. As soon as you fetch a copy of the hardcover from the stacks, you’ll see the ribbons and pointe shoe: yes, a new ballet story for us. *rubs palms*
And how much it reminds me of our old favourite, Edward Stewart’s Ballerina. I’ve just pulled my copy of that one off the shelf to give it a good sniff. Oh, it’s in such horrible shape: this 1982 paperback, yellow inside and out, the bottom corner peeled off, an inner page missing (but fortunately none of the story), it seeming to have been caught in the damp at some point (though not actually water-damaged): but it smells so good. Like old favourite books should.