Wasn't quite sure how I felt about this book and only finished reading it because I *needed* to know. Then I quite liked the ending, it was mature and somewhat open but definitely a step in the right direction and the second I read the word epilogue I knew my joy had been premature.

Moriarty's strength is in the biting description of urban family life, so if you can't relate to it—raises hand—it's probably safer to stay away. Mysteries be damned.

The ending fell a bit flat for me. I understand why the author went there, but it did take something out from the joy I'd been having with this book. Other than that, I've been told this book is an accurate description of a certain way of life and I'm so glad I'm not part of it. Which is to say:

Tips!

Read this, if you don't plan on having kids or already have all the ones you're going to have.

Don't read this, if you're planning on having kids.

I think they had it right the first time. The only literature value I found in this book was purely on the meta-level in its contemporary description of just how much the 1950s sucked. And I mean sucked hard.

Death makes a classic, I guess. 

[Title quote source: Kirk, Connie Ann. (2004). Sylvia Plath: A Biography. Westport, CN: Greenwood Press. ISBN 0-313-33214-2.]

I picked up this book at the library because I saw the English translation first. I thought that maybe, if I liked it, I could share it with my non-Finnish speaking friends. And at first, it looked like everything I could have hoped for.

The language is terse and to the point just how I like it, and I was planning a discussion post on comparing the original to the translation and how language affects the reading experience. There are even a few jokes I wanted to see if they worked in English.

There is some repetition, which normally makes me itchy, but here it was a clue how to approach the story. Or so I thought at the time. I clung to the opportunity as I was trying to ignore a very poor female characterisation choice from a male author.

The faulty ovaries. The total sum of self for Ella Amanda Milana is her faulty ovaries leaving her the genetic dead end of her family. At first it looked to be a crutch, which would soon be forgotten as the author moves on, but it never went away.

And then the game started. The literature society members each have an opportunity to challenge one another to a game where there is one question and the absolute truth for an answer at any cost. Ella uses the game to find out more about Laura Lumikko (translated Laura White) who founded this literature society, and in turn bleeds the painful truths about her barrenness, father's death, and, of course, her sexual fantasies.

Because what else would the male players of the Game be interested in. Instead of finding out more about the lukewarm mystery that barely holds this book together, the author focuses in pornographic detail to Ella's sexuality and fascination with the obese writer of the group. And hell, let's throw in another male author's domestic violence rape in for absolutely no reason ever to make this a perversion bingo.

The magical realism and the supernatural mystery were in fact just an excuse to see the old fat man have sex with a young slender woman.