Oh boy, this is a weird one. Or you know, experimental – as in while there is a plot, it’s as hard to follow as a unlaid jiqsaw puzzle, and the sentences come to you as the unconnected thoughts of man, children and, well, crow. If you like that kind of thing, you’ll love this – if not, perhaps stay clear.
I was drawn in by the title – a version of ”Hope is the thing with feathers”, a favourite poem by Emily Dickinson (link here for those interested) – and the promise of crows, a favourite bird of mine. The title is apt, in its own way, but don’t expect either Dickinsonesque poetry or the hallowed birds of mythology and wilderness – expect grief, and if you’re like me, a mixture of somewhat tiresome bits and fascinating bits.
Recommended? In all honesty, no. But not everyone has the same taste, so if you like the sound of the above then go for it. It’s a quick read in either case.
Reminded me of: I suppose it is a bit like Virgina Woolfs’ To the Lighthouse in that it is, I think, a form of stream of consciousness-writing.