The Thirteenth Tale

I started The Thirteenth Tale with fairly high expectations. I've had a thing for historical fiction lately, and this novel is all about a writer and her book-obsessed biographer. A book about books and the quiet stories that we can hear all around us if we only listen properly? Sounded perfect.

Unfortunately, Diane Setterfield, after a strong start, loses momentum half-way through. She's clearly trying to create a spooky atmosphere and sense of longing among her characters, but she lays it on a little thick and fails in evoking the eeriness she strives for. Margaret Lea, invited to write the biography of Britain's most reclusive best selling novelist, Vida Winter, is the protagonist for half of the book. When not playing amateur detective confirming Miss Winter's tale, she mostly fills the reader in on her own sorrow. The root of her sadness, though strongly tied to the book's themes, never rings quite true and left me unsatisfied.

The more compelling portion of the novel is Miss Winter's story. This story-within-the-story comes closest to achieving Setterfield's atmospheric goal, and is certainly the heart of the book. Miss Winter is one half of a pair of disturbed and neglected twins. Their once grand house is literally falling down around them while the mental illnesses and bizarre lifestyles of family members leaves them with only each other for comfort.

I wish Setterfield had trusted her readers a bit more. She spells things out unnecessarily and doesn't let the reader put the pieces together herself. Her mystery is not so complex as to require quite the level of handholding she provides. Ultimately, I enjoyed The Thirteenth Tale, but it didn't quite live up to its promise.