Amateurish and insipid

I'd never read Gene Wolfe before but I knew the name and hence did not expect to be so disappointed. The writing is drab and functional and appears exhausted by simply conveying its own narrative. Maybe it's because I've come straight here from an M John Harrison binge that Wolf's prose strikes me as about as exciting as a 99p travel guide (ironically, given the subject matter of this novel).

The plot itself, as well as being dull, comes across as contrived and the characters are shoe-horned into their roles, much like in a post-90s Stephen King novel. You get the impression that if you jumped into the writer's world, grabbed one of his characters and demanded they explain why they were doing what they were doing, they would scratch their chin and grimace before admitting, with a puzzled little laugh, that they honestly don't know. You might go on to suggest in that case they might as well forget about the whole thing and go home, at which point they'd thank you, get up and leave.

On the upside, Jeff Woodman's narration is on the ball. He's clearly the go-to guy for central-European female vocals.

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