![]() When I thought on it, the story felt trite, the characters flat: mere puppets acting out a tired old story on a beautiful stage to gorgeous music. However, once I had put the book down and had ceased to be dazzled by Harvell’s language, I came to realise that it was not quite as brilliant as I imagined it to be. While I was reading the book, living in it, it was a pleasure, not least because of Harvell’s exquisite language. ![]() ![]() And since many reviews had compared Harvell’s novel to Patrick Süskind’s Perfume, I thought it would be a good book to satisfy my whim.Īnd it was – but not quite, either. Earlier this year, I picked up Richard Harvell’s The Bells, driven by a whim to read about music – not in non-fiction, but in fiction. ![]()
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