Yesterday I read Disquiet by Julia Leigh.  This was a creepy book from the first page to the last. There were brief moments of humanity but for the most part the story unfolded in a bizarre shadow play of obscured characters.  Leigh’s writing style was overdone and cold, placing me deliberately in a very distant place  from the action.  The whole thing was like a very bad dream and the dark and hidden atmosphere became just plain annoying after awhile.

Wife beating, stillborn baby, filial estrangement, suicide, and random escape are the main events either contemplated or remembered, and the awful truth is that I just didn’t care all that much. Watching the characters (the woman, the boy, the girl — we know their names, why not use them?) through shadow glass was just too much of a manipulation on Leigh’s part and resulted in the utter strangulation of my feelings.  The novel is overdone in its style of detachment, overboard in grandiose  details (the mighty old house and magnificent grounds), and cloying in its hints of madness.  This was a gothic novel that remained cold to the touch.  Why read a book that never warms up but remains frigid and bound and closed?  The answer: don’t.