Remember back in one's 20s, when, if you experienced radio silence for more than twelve months, major things would have changed? Like, "THAT guy? Long gone. Moved to Oakland. Got a new job! Started grad school. Dyed my hair black! Shaved it off!"
Or something like that.
Now, not so much. Same job? Check. Same house? Check (thank goodness!). Same level of post-graduate education? Check. Same guy? Of course! Hair? 13 months longer. Lots of comedy and some tragedy in the interim, but ... there's something to be said for continuity.
So now that we're all caught up --
This was the goriest book I have read in ages. Gratuitously gory. I can't believe it is intended for young adults. It's about a race of cannibal creatures, apparently referenced in great literature, and set loose in Victorian-era New England. Actually, it's about the Montrumologist who chases these creatures, and this is just the First Adventure (no book acts alone these days).
Seriously -- this book makes me worry for Rick Yancey's overall psychological profile. He lovingly lingers over the color of the sunset reflecting on the blood and bits of flesh dripping down the walls of the vicarage, and the limbs of the young daughter strewn about the floor like the petals of a blood-soaked daisy. Shit was GROSS.
But, interestingly, much better crafted as a piece of writing than the other YA book of his that I've read:
So tell me, who is the real monster? HMMMM.