Sometimes you read a truly great book and feel compelled to talk about it with everyone you know. You need to share it so badly, you might even give your beautiful hardcover copy to a friend. Sometimes you compare yourself to the main character and wonder what they would do in situations that come up in your own life. The main character becomes your own little imaginary friend who occupies that part of your brain that you never show. The part that thinks. And then sometimes you read a truly great book, put it down, and say out loud, “What in the world just happened?” Such was the case with Mrs. March by Virginia Feito.
Mrs. March is, without question, a mind bender on all counts. It’s suspenseful, brilliant, deliciously tropey, and it’s about an uptight, unlikable heroine. What more do you need? When was the last time you were given permission not to like someone? I never get to do that. I especially never get to not like someone while laughing at her. That would be mean. But Ms. Feito encourages you to flat out hate her heroine as much as she dislikes herself. All of this is accomplished with the use of my favorite kind of writing, the kind that doesn’t pat itself on its own back with endlessly long descriptions of things like grass or the nape of some lady’s neck. Any adjectives aside from “green” or “long” should be tossed, if you ask me. Most words ruin most books, but not this one. I especially loved when Mrs. March put a question mark after the word Slut. It was such a slick move and she didn’t need a single word to do it.
I’m sure you’ll read it after reading my description of it and that’s my intention. Because, I have no idea what actually did and didn’t happen, nor how the damn thing ended. Can someone please read it and explain to me what Agatha March did? Seriously, Agatha March, what have you done?
