Himself by Jess KiddMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Jess Kidd's vibrant vivid language that so hooked me in Mr. Flood's Last Resort flares again into life in Himself. But I gave it four stars because of the ending. The last chapter answered one question obliquely but provided no answers to motivation. I figured out who was responsible for Mahony's mother's death, and I understood the surface reason of why but not the internal forces that lead to it. And that’s rather unsatisfying. Perhaps Kidd only wanted to give glimpses, but in the book club questions there isn’t a hint about motivation or about the father, almost as if the editors didn’t want to touch all that with a 10m pole! Good storytelling meant I still hugely enjoyed the story.
Kidd's writing, like the first book of hers I read, was easy to visualize. So much so that the imagery I created remains vivid months later as I write this review. Mahony, charming and vulnerable, questing and putting one's heart in one's mouth at the danger he courts, pops right back into memory as lively as ever. His gift both contributes to unravelling the mystery of his mother while keeping us firmly in Kidd's grip. Turning the electronic page is a must that cannot be denied, except when fatigue inevitably drags at one's neurons.
Kidd draws the characters with a firm hand. You become so invested in them, you don't want the story to end and you want to yell at them to watch out as they rush headlong toward the evil, dangerous man. I spotted him well before the end, but it didn't spoil my enjoyment. I had to make myself stop reading so that I wouldn't exhaust myself. It meant I got to enjoy the book longer!
It's a story that entertains on the surface. It has fantastical elements; full-throated characterizations and conflict; an intriguing plot; and a decent end. But think deeper and you see something nasty. Being as I read this during a pandemic, I didn't really want to think too deep, to muck right into the disturbing things and ideas Kidd is unveiling through Himself. I felt like I was peeking into Kidd's soul. They say writers write about what disturbs them, what haunts their dreams so that they no longer dream of them. Mahony uncovering what the village has been hiding without knowing it (or perhaps did), drags the haunting out into the light and vaporizes it. Yet its essence remains like mist clinging to the edges of your mind.
I had to wait awhile for this book to come off hold at the library. Because I liked Himself and Mr. Flood's Last Resort, I put a hold on for another of Kidd's books, Things in Jars. I tried to read it but nope. The problem with visually rich language is that you must have a strong stomach and a lack of empathy for some kinds of things and characters, the kinds that appeared in Things in Jars but not the two books I'd read. So I'm holding the line on her books with this one. It's a good one to end on to keep a satisfactory taste in the mouth, so to speak.
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