Such small hands

 i came across this book through lithub, premises sounded promising, the length was really short, and so i decided to read it. it was good, to the extent that i ended up reading it within 2 days (regardless of the length) because what really hooked me was the writing and the atmosphere that was created. it kind of pulled me in and i was looking forward to reading more. the writing is alluring and enticing, and i didn't know if i wanted to categorize it as gothic lit because it kind of felt like that, although subtly, but i did not see people taking it that way until i found Barba's interview on granta and he believes that it can be considered gothic:

"I was more conscious of the Greek than the gothic tradition, but it is true that for many reasons the book can be considered gothic."

the book lacks in substantiality, i think, which is the because of the length; my only issue is that i wanted more. the story feels too rushed, i also wished that the horror element could've been introduced earlier rather than being put off until the last 20 pages or so. it flows really well, and instead of a plot-heavy suspense-building storyline, it is a collection of events that happened in the orphanage and then lead to the main event.

another thing is the switch between perspectives: we have 2, one is marina's (the protagonist) and the other is a collective viewpoint of the other girls of the orphanage termed 'we'. i did not enjoy the switch because if you consider the length of the book the constant switch from one perspective to another might not really sit well (it didn't, with me) which is why i felt a bit disoriented.

i do recommend this one if you want to read something short and atmospheric. barba's words handle the grief and loss of a 7-year-old child really well. i also recommend reading the afterword and the author's interview with granta. it helped me settle my thoughts a little. my only qualms are, again, with the length which further caused the lack of stability or solidness in the story.

She couldn’t see that the memory was too delicate for us; we didn’t know how to grasp it. Those castles, that colored glass, the balconies Mickey and Minnie stood on, none of that could ever be ours. We ambled awkwardly alongside Marina’s memory, always parallel, always tired, always hungry, but the urgency of our desire wasn’t enough to bring it to life and then we tired of trying, and desire turned to rage against that girl who seemed too old.

How did our desire begin? We don’t know. Everything was silent in our desire, like acrobats in motion, like tightrope walkers. Desire was a big knife and we were the handle.