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Sex on Earth: A Celebration of Animal Reproduction
Jules Howard

The Translator

The Translator - John Crowley This is one of those books that just do not sit well with me. This book did not cause mixed emotions or even flickering enjoyment. No, this book was not for me by page 2. I love books based on and in Russia, which is why I picked this book up 6 years ago and thought for sure I would enjoy it. Well that was before I meticulously researched books and authors, had I done so then I would not own this book. Why did I not like it? Let me explain.

The writing style in this book can only be described as flowery and vague. I generally dislike books that are "flowery" (I'm sure there is a more appropriate description for the book but flowery is the only thing coming to mind, not that I feel it is very fair to flowers--which are something I actually enjoy as opposed to this book). But flowery and vague? That is just too much. Then you add in the John Crowley factor and we have a major issue. Where did Crowley lose me completely? On page 27. That's right, only ten percent into the book. The following scene is on page 27 and as far as I can tell it adds nothing to the story beyond a creepy factor, and not creepy in a Stephen King way, creepy in a that-old-man-is-leering-at-me sort of way.

The day before school started she came to her mother and told her this weird thing had happened and she was scared: her stomach hurt and there was blood in her underwear.

Well that's not something to be scared of, her mother said. She began an explanation, saying Now you know you have this hole there, not the peepee one but the other one. Kit nodded and listened to the rest of what her mother said [...] then went back to her room; and as though she were catching a bright centipede in its damp crevice she discovered what she had in fact not known before, that she had a hole htere: not how far it went, though, or where it led.

A male author wrote this. Creepy. Disgusting. I believe no male writer should venture into this realm period. But when one does they should tread lightly and Crowley did not in my opinion tread lightly. This should reiterate why a male writer should never EVER write about a young girl's period or self discovery. I have not been so disturbed by a book in quite awhile, that much I'll give Crowley.

I do not recommend this book. It did absolutely nothing for me, aside from creeping me out. The story is vague throughout and I cared absolutely nothing about any of the characters and despite the book being just about 300 pages long, that was just about 300 pages too many. Good riddance.