The thing grabbed me and would not let go. It may sound trite, but "gripping" is the word that comes to mind most forcefully. I found myself making up excuses to go on errands, so that I could listen to it while driving. I know that is not legal everywhere, but it was worth the risk. When I neared the end I had to park in a driveway for some time and finish listening. Rushdie never let up. Five minutes before the end I was still being surprised and astonished.
Oh God no. All the while I am listening I am thinking "The Hunger Games...". The plot and characters are so much like Collins' that I want to scream. Her book didn't warrant sequels. A predictable novel derived from one equally predictable, even less so.
Even after granting the premiss, a necessity when reading speculative fiction, I am severely distracted by the notion that there is no way it could work. The heapers keeping their identities secret over lifetimes, when a minor cut, five o'clock shadow, or stinky underarms could give them away? Please. That said, Fuduka's writerly skills are good enough that I haven't given up on it yet.
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