I always judge a book by its cover and Slade House by David Mitchell does not disappoint. Beneath that beautiful, intricate, unexpected, original, twisty-turny exterior lies a story of equal splendour. It’s annoyingly perfect; the characters, the plot, the idea. Then there’s the writing – oh the writing. It upsets me that I can’t describe the prose in a justifiable, non-hackneyed way. In fact the only person that could get anywhere close is probably David Mitchell himself.
So I’ll stick with what I know: Slade House is as scary as hell. I read it as the author likely intended, over Halloween, for extra impact. It worked. I didn’t sleep a wink. Mainly because I was trying to imagine what it would feel like to craft such a work of art.