David Stansfield

Inconsistent quality of writing descending into the somewhat preachy mars this book. As Stansfield unfolds his tale of buried secrets, denied sexual orientation, incestuous pederasty, and patricide we do not feel secure in the author's talent. The subjects are so distasteful that they require exquisite writing to be made compelling and that Stansfield is unable to achieve.

This novel is not compelling; however, it sustains palatability.

Disclosure: I don’t like books in which a dead person is the teller of the tale. I can not suspend my disbelief that it is impossible; for me it remains a "lazy" contrivance. However, I read the book to the end, glossing over the parts where the writing seemed rough because there were enough redeeming qualities to keep me hooked. So, in spite of my distaste for the p.o.v. “trick,” I obviously liked the book enough to read the whole thing. This is probably attributable to the WWI back story – WWI is a particular period that interests me.

All that said, there’s no denying that Stansfield is a good enough writer to be forgiven his lack of staying power.… (mer)