This book was suggested to me because I have read House of Leaves. I read the synopsis of Houdini Heart and was intrigued; I wasn't expecting anything like House of Leaves, but I do love a good horror story involving a house and a cast of haunted characters. When I finished this novel yesterday, I felt confused and disappointed, as if everyone else was "getting" something that I simply missed. I didn't get it, in all honesty.I had absolutely no connection to the main character, which is always a literary tragedy in my mind. There was nothing about her to which I could relate, I felt no sympathy to her hardships and tragedies, and frankly I didn't care what happened to her. As the confusion and madness began to unravel in her mind during her time in River House, I found my attention drifting and wondered when the story would finally pick up. It never really did. To me, the ghosts ended up being scarecrows draped in dime store sheets. A few disturbing moments that had nothing to do with haunting and everything to do with madness were the only bits of interest in this story for me. And above all else, this is what is sad: It was not a great story, in my opinion.I grew weary with the endless references to Shirley Jackson and the plethora of suicidal writers that are listed throughout the text like a film cast. Again, I found myself asking, "So what?" The possibilities for deep philosophical contemplation of the correlations between art and suicide were simply lost. Sylvia Plath stuck her head in the oven, and the protagonist in Houdini Heart keeps changing her mind about whether or not to throw herself in the river. And? The story is disjointed, with multiple points scattered throughout but without any linking factors that make sense or develop the characters.I wish I could have enjoyed this book more, I really do. I don't seek out stories that disappoint me. I think with deeper character development, more sense of purpose to the many mentions of suicide by the great artists of the world, and a protagonist with whom I could connect, this would have made more of a mark on me. Just put this down and I'm thinking. I suspect I'll be thinking about this one for some time. What happened? Did anything happen? Did it all happen? Does it matter? It's a book like a movie is a movie. Do the things in books and movies happen? Does it matter? It's how you respond to the illusion of reality that matters. And then you begin to question the nature of reality. Is reality a book written by aliens? Are we in one of their films? Is the artist reaching inside and pulling out some aspect of their psyche? Or is the artist getting lost in a reality outside themselves? Is there any "outside" the self? All these questions occurred to me as I read this exceptional tale of an artist's struggle with her work, her life, her sanity. Her own work, the best she'd ever done, was it more "real" than her so-called life? Questions. Questions. I could go on and on. Anyone looking for answers or for traditional horror where the answer is a monster or the narrator is lying or whatever is bound to be confused and disappointed in a book like this. But this is true horror, the true underlying terror of our lives. We have no idea what's going on, or why. So we create monsters to make it safer. We can do battle with a monster. Zombies, werewolves, vampires, politicians, terrorists - these are tangible. We can keep them outside ourselves, say they aren't us. They're symbols of the real fear that we are all insane and can't know anything for sure. And here, in this book, it's all laid out for you. Beautifully written in a style shaped precisely to its content. Oh, and the story within the story, The Windigo's Daughter, is one of the best short stories I've ever read. Houdini Heart is one of the best psychological stumpers I've ever read. Big kudos.
What do You think about Houdini Heart (2011)?
Brilliant. Sometimes nerve-wracking, most of the time mesmerizing.
—fiona
It thoroughly freaked me out, but entirely in a good way.
—meganroy
Brilliant. Strange. One of a kind. Enchanted writing.
—Nick
