I just finished reading Maggie O’Farrell’s HAMNET. From all I’d read and heard about this book-- including its prize-winning ways-- I figured I’d be reading a good book. Maybe a great one. But with all that baggage, and knowing we were dealing with ‘literary fiction’ I also feared that reading it might be a bit of a chore. I mean, I’ve read ‘classics’ before, lots of ‘em. They tend to be clearly worthy of their reputations…but not easy. Not a page-turner. Not a zippy mystery from Michael Connelly or a tense must-finish from Stephen King. 

So I expected a good book. I feared a high-falutin’ slog. Expectations were more than met, fears soon evaporated.

For the first two-thirds of the book, 200 pages or thereabouts, I thought “good book. Very interesting, well-written, tells its story very well, yeah, good.” And I was satisfied. Not a great book (at that point), but certainly a good, readable, interesting novel. 

Then, with about a third of book to go, magic happened. The last 100 pages of HAMNET are astonishing. O’Farrell is practicing some sort of sorcery here. It becomes a masterpiece, about as fine a piece of writing as I’ve ever had the pleasure to read.

It wouldn’t be called “fun” reading, however. It’s a heartbreaking record of grief, a litany of agony, brilliantly told, which somehow manages an uplifting ending. 

Yeah. One of the best things I’ve ever read.