The Thirteenth Tale

My mother mentioned to me last week that she had bought The Thirteenth Tale. She read it in two days and then Fed-Exed it to me. I told her that such a speedy mailing was not necessary.

She responded, "Yes, it was."

I started Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale around four o'clock yesterday... and it did not leave my hands until I finished it later last night. I started to read it without any previous knowledge of the plot; the only thing I knew was that it was an Englishwoman's debut novel and it was geared towards people who liked books. If you Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Woman in White among your favorite literature, then I suspect that you have an excellent chance of loving this, too. It might not be admitted to the literary canon any time soon, but it's still a delightful story told in a way that lures you in from the very start.

But if you're one of my close friends and you're the type who would like this book... don't buy it. I've already purchased it for you as a holiday present.

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