I hate this goddamned star system, I really do. If I give four, does that mean it is eternally almost as good as The Golden Notebook, and just that much better than The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas? I suppose "eternally" is a trick wording, because come Ragnarök, Crispin Glover and I will be more concerned with repopulating the earth to bother with such trifles. I suppose, also, that the paper-cut agony of deciding precisely how many little gold things this thing is and what that meannnnnnnnnns is sort of a made-up, white-people problem. But I'm white people, and very good at making up shit. So here I am.The first time I read this book was likely some time around fifth grade. This, Harriet the Spy and The Phantom Tollbooth are the survivors of my then-formidable library. (Sure, two shelves were Babysitters Club, and my girlfriends and I can still sing the theme from the movie. Not to brag or anything. Oh, and Sweet Valley High. Duh. Those perfect size 6s... this train of thought is making me think I need to pay my library fines and go drown myself in the dulcet foam of pre-Twilight preteen lit. Or at least paint my pinky nails purple and be a horrid cunt.) (This is the only review to use the c-word, I ga-rron-tee! Also the only to be falsely Cajun.) The fact that these three books have survived countless bouts of anti-sentimental neurotic cleansing is testament to their lingering I don't know, whatever.You can't go home again, right, but perhaps you can on occasion read a book similarly patinaed to the something that was once home. This clever and generous and somewhat smart-assed YA novel is familiar and lovely to me. Reading it too much would rub off this special effect; I must tread lightly. The characters, though not always fleshed out in much detail, have managed to stick in my skull (boom!) as quite real beings- beings who become more real throughout the progress of the book, in a more subtle manner than so many other authors of young adult (and hell, totally for grown-ass people) lit. I mean, it's not fucking Sherwood Anderson. But it's clever, clever, clever. And sensitive. And spooky. Oh yeah, it's a mystery. That part is good too. I know what's what but I still like to read about it happening.(I just now noticed what a fucking pottymouth I am... sorry? This is honestly how I speak. Bitch tits what the hell what the heck.)
happened to email a friend the other day about some old, nostalgic childhood reads; was about to recommend this book to her, when i realized i could remember almost nothing of the plot or characters, nothing but the memory of me reading this book in 4th grade and falling immediately, irrevocably, unshakably in love with ellen raskin. that's it; that's all that remained. some ten years later, and here i am reading the westing game again but also, in a way, for the first time. the ghost of the past rising up into the present. here's how the first chapter starts. The sun sets in the west (just about everyone knows that), but Sunset Towers faced east. Strange!and here's how the first chapter ends. Whoever, whatever else he was, Barney Northrup was a good salesman. In one day he had rented all of Sunset Towers to the people whose names were already printed on the mailboxes in alcoves off the lobby . . . Who were these people, these specially selected tenants? They were mothers and fathers and children. A dressmaker, a secretary, an inventor, a doctor, a judge. And, oh yes, one was a bookie, one was a burglar, one was a bomber, and one was a mistake. Barney Northrup had rented one of the apartments to the wrong person.and there it was again: immediate, irrevocable, unshakable love! [and awe, now that i've read those bits again after this second reading - how was ellen raskin so BRILLIANT?] i can't describe it. i was going to draw on the old, faithful analogy of friendship, but really i don't think this needs to be explained as anything other than what it is: love for a good book. a great, inventive, clever, magnificent book. it makes me want to go back in time and high-five my 4th grader self, for being smart enough and lucky enough to have found it. long live the westing games!
What do You think about The Westing Game (2004)?
To me, this book is so my childhood. I remember reading it over and over again growing up and somehow it never got old... the ridiculous antics of the characters, which were somehow realistic despite the fact that they're obviously caricatures, the mystery behind it all, and the constants twists and turns of the plotline. And behind all of it, my joy at being able to cheer on the most obnoxious character of them all, because I connect with her. Somehow it never gets old to me, I'm still always surprised when I reach the end... I love to wait till I can forget the majority of the storyline, and then re-read it to re-discover it all over again!
—Jennifer
I think I first read The Westing Game in third or fourth grade. I checked it out of a public school library in Missouri. I loved it, returned it, and checked it again a few months later on another weekly library visit. Two things: 1. Why should children only go to the library once a week? My education would have been brighter and fuller had I just stayed in the library. Other kids could have had more time with the restroom pass, but instead I hoarded that thing and sat on the white raised seat reading away. I'm sure my teacher must've been concerned over my restroom needs/habits. 2.I loved Turtle, the girl with the braids that beg to be pulled. I braided my hair like Turtle's and liked whirling around and using them as weapons against boys coming in for the kisschase win. Which was a good development because a couple of years earlier I bit Rashad Ware when he lumbered towards me for a smooch. (I told my parents that I didn't bite him; just was running with my mouth open and happened to want to close it when his arm showed up) Back to the book. Still, years later, in love with Turtle, only the mother in me now has room to love Flora Baumbach, hair braider, as well. And Mrs. stickyfingers Hoo, my new favorite. So, still in love with the book. The whizzbang puzzle mystery abides, only the clues are not as mysterious and I did wish that purple waves meant something really, really sinister and twisted. But that's just my maturity showing. So great to be grown up. This was a sister book club pick. My youngest sister had never read it; apparently, an epic fail in my big sister job on that one. But, it's good to see that I did well enough a job that she knew to find it herself and suggest it for book club. I've helped raise a responsible adult. Even if she liked Crow, the woman in black. My middle sister took a long time, too long of a time, to read this book. But she finished, liked it, and all is well. This would be a great family read aloud book. But, to stop my eldest from reading ahead I would have to hide it really well. Maybe even have clues. And a wax dummy dead body! Long live the Westing Game.
—Jen
I recently read reviews from a mother who read this as part of a mother/daughter book club & her less than stellar opinion made me afraid to re-read this as an adult since I loved it so much as a kid (she said the girls all loved it; the mothers not so much). So I'm really glad you're enjoying it again as an adult.
—Wendy Darling
