It’s all in the details, indeed. But, remember, too much of anything can be sickening.
During the Christmas Holidays, I was a saint. Without The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by Gordon Dahlquist I would not have realized the extremes of my patience, my capacity for the bizarre, my zen with verbiage, from a far too generous author. With 760 pages, this Victorian thriller is a door stopper, and a time-stopper as its mystery, violence and horrifying seduction shut out even the scent of puto bumbong being prepared in the kitchen.
Strange book, atmospheric (VERY detailed) and measured (slow) with periods of alarm.
At any other time, I would have accused the author of being a control-freak, an anal-retentive, and obsessive compulsive. But it was the holidays, and my vow to be as lazy as possible at the end of a year filled with headaches softened my perspective, letting me see through all the details into the beautiful, ornate prose, the fantastic steampunk adventure, vivid characters, and intrigue of secret societies. I loved the Gothic atmosphere, which especially promised thrills at the beginning of Miss Temple’s quest to discover why she was rejected by Roger Bascombe.
Just as the glass books that ate dreams and spit them out, this book surrendered to me the lives of those that touched it, letting me live through them, letting me become them, for a time. But at the end of the day, shall I miss having been so immersed? Maybe not, it was like addiction, that became heavier the longer I held it. I enjoyed it, but when I finished it, it was like snapping out of a bad, albeit, fantastic dream.