The Echoes
Fascinating and brilliant ... When all the jagged edges come together, truly becomes a thing of beauty.
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I could have read an entire novel dedicated to Max and Hannah’s quotidian life in London — in its best and most lyrical moments, The Echoes documents the messy, divine business of being alive ... Wyld’s sharp story of living doesn’t need traumatic climaxes to make its point. The time to enjoy the love we have is now.
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The title of Wyld’s new novel, The Echoes, is presumably meant to sound wistful and haunting. Actually it’s more a case of cacophonic reverb, an untenable proliferation of both narratives and traumas ... Multiple secrets, artificially withheld over hundreds of pages: could there be a cruder way to generate tension? Or a more tiresome objective correlative than the overused self-harm trope? These days characters seem to whip out a razor blade at the first hint of a feeling or a memory. But, as is always the case with Wyld’s novels, some of the writing is genuinely, frustratingly good ... Quite simply, there is far too much going on here for us to get to know the characters well enough to feel for them.
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