When I pick up a first-time novelist's book I always hope to uncover a treasure, that great book that no one's talking about yet. I imagine the author, pouring his heart into a work for little encouragement and no money, yearning to be discovered by a sensitive and discerning reader. (That would be me!)
No such luck here. Henry Bale is a 40-ish gravedigger in the small village of Chalk, England, an unmarried almost-hermit. He's handsome, though, and clearly muscular from all that digging. Along comes Caroline, a schoolteacher from somewhere more sophisticated, beautiful and 27. Henry must overcome his fear of death in order to allow himself to become close
to her.
I will now close this review in as abrupt a fashion as the book in question ended, with a GIGANTIC SPOILER ALERT:
If I read one more book in which the main female character is crushed by a bus, trolley, truck, car, or oak tree trunk, I'm taking up watercolors. My count is 4 smashed females in 2010. That's at least 3 too many, at least if you're not reading thrillers, mysteries, or horror titles.
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