Killing Stella
Vividly translated ... Sparse yet unsparing, it is a riveting, merciless fable of blame, shame, and consequence ... It’s a total, self-encapsulating project—about a total, self-encapsulating doom.
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This is a book that gets more, not less, mysterious as it goes ... Why is the narrator like this? Why can’t she face the truth of the world? Why does she need to forget? The more we read, the clearer it becomes that these questions, more than any whodunit elements, are the real mysteries the novel is wrestling with ... We never get answers ... I would not want to live in a world where all our novels were like this, guided by narrators who don’t carry us from mystery to solution, but instead just thrash around in the darkness. Still, I am glad that such novels exist; they are the literary equivalent of a sudden plunge into icy waters. They shock, they clarify.
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Remains timelessly potent, its haunting horror more relevant than ever
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