A pair of psychopaths at the opposite ends of the world, each bent on destroying the innocent in their own way. Their only connections are a certain nun and an obsession with human skin.

The book that feels most similar to this is Perfume by Patrick Suskind, although this tale isn't quite the same transcendant gem of a book. It's a solid read, well-researched, a bit disturbing. But it didn't quite stick the ending, and left me going, "Wait, it's over....?" The character voices were a great strength; everything else was solid but not quite brilliant. The bad guys never quite tempt one into becoming bad oneself, if that makes sense, and it's the sort of book where they really should.

Do read this if you're a fan of Perfume or writers like Anne Rice or Tanith Lee. Solid books of this sort aren't common enough to turn up one's nose at. But expect reasonable things from this book, not transcendant ones.

3.5/5

This is one of those books that I feel could have benefited had I been reading it by itself. Unfortunately for this particular work, I've had plenty of simultaneous reading experiences where each work held their own just fine in conjunction with their competition, so my penchant for multiple books is really not to blame.

Intriguing title, isn't it? Sensational, salacious, and easily backed up by the promise of the summary and the entirety of the book. The only problem, really, was the matter of the book buckling under its own weight of cast, plot, and historical trivia. I have to give credit for the incredible amount of research the writer put into the composition, but the fact remains that I paid increasingly more attention to the seams stitching this bulging form together as the story went on. A case of the construct posing more of an interest than the writing itself, unfortunately.

There was plenty of reason for interest. Five narrators, each with their carefully delineated traits and oftentimes cleverly put together vernacular, sailing along on a path spanning the revolts in Spanish controlled Peru to the Napoleonic invasion of Russia, strung together by reasons of love, atrocity, and skin. The setting was especially grand, ripe with cosmopolitan factual intrigue and an especial interest in conveying the more disgusting aspects of living in this age in as vividly visceral a manner as possible. However, not even this grand scale of things, or anything else for that matter, was enough to make up for the ultimate flatness of many of the characters, tugged as they were this way and that as an increasingly obvious excuse to display so much of the world that they lived in.

There was also the matter of the final thirty or so pages being devoted to historical notes, the sort of thing that usually guarantees my interest. Unfortunately, the author's choice in divulging her research resulted in less of a fascinated outlook and more of a disappointment with the man behind the curtain feeling, not at all helped by the several times the topics devolved into strains of commentary bordering on rants that did more to display the author's personal beliefs than keep me intrigued. Mind you, I adore digression, but not the sort that did more to highlight the weakness of the author's prose when not cloaked in vernacular pyrotechnics than anything else.

So, if you have an interest in late 18th to early 19th history spanning from Venice to Arequipa, the seedier side of convents, medical practices caked in blood and gore and pus, various explorations of poverty, the field of books bound in human skin, and don't mind if the people running through the plot are rather predictable, go for it. The fact that the end of the pages left me yawning over the lists of historical instances of literary pursuits intersecting with both dissectional and vivisectional practices may say more about me than the quality of the work.

A slow start and for the first two hundred pages I was contemplating giving up, but glad I persevered as it really gets into gear after that. Definitely one that you'll keep thinking about...

The Book of Human Skin

I have very mixed feelings about this book - my reaction to most books is usually a visceral 'I like it' or 'I HATE IT.' I didn’t dislike it, and I didn’t hate it. I immensely enjoyed the rich setting and background and found the writing exquisitely crafted. It drew me along, but I grew resentful of its length; I got tired of so much non-stop YUCKINESS; and I was annoyed by the multitude of narrators.

Despite the anti-hero Minguillo’s glib aside to the Reader on the last page of the story - ‘You loved to be shocked and you craved more. Do not tell me you did not flick through the pages, eager to be revolted’ - I maintain that by that time I only craved an end to his catalogue of gore, which I persisted through chiefly because I am so ashamed of ever turning up at another book group meeting without having finished the assigned book.

BUT. But, for all that, this book is beautifully written and wonderfully researched, and I bow in true and astonished admiration for the author’s ability to blend fact and fiction and make them appear to be seamless. Also, no mean feat, to present ‘historical fiction’ in such a way that you don’t think ‘OH here I am reading historical fiction.’ You just go along and enjoy the ride.

And when I discovered that the last 40 pages of text weren’t in fact more narrative, but rather an extensive historical note, I was delighted - I was so very Done with the narrative by then and really interested to discover some of the incredible and intriguing background of the settings (18th and early 19th century Peru and Venice).

Some random notes:

- I thought the Peruvian sections were considerably more descriptive and evocative than the Venetian sections. Curious, since the author presumably knows Venice more intimately than Peru. Perhaps she’s just so familiar with Venice that she takes it for granted? The passages describing the journey by foot and mule over the Andes were superb, as was the description of Santa Catalina’s nunnery. The descriptions of Venice’s squares and canals and even the lunatic asylum were quite cursory by comparison.

- OMG MULTIPLE NARRATORS. WHAT IS IT WITH YOU PEOPLE. This book did not need five narrators. (Not to mention five different fonts, one for each narrator. It makes me SIGH just remembering. Also, I was annoyed that the Note about Fonts at the back of the book doesn’t give examples of the fonts described, so you have to guess which is which. How the heck do I KNOW which is which? And I am INTERESTED. Who is this information for, if not for the Interested Reader???? Although I suppose this is not the author’s fault. Design staff, are you listening?)

- OMG MADE-UP WORKING CLASS DIALECT. OH. MY. GOD. I have a very strong stomach for the literary horrors of mental and physical torture, if it furthers the plot, but Gianni’s pretend illiterate rambling NEARLY made me give up and burn the damn thing. As with Aibilene’s sections in[b:The Help|7856358|The Help|Kathryn Stockett|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1278457730s/7856358.jpg|4717423], eventually I learned to kind of skim these sections for sense without taking in the full epic experience of the meticulously constructed (yes) but SO RELENTLESS spoonerisms, malapropisms, puns and deliberate misspellings. Also irritating about these sections was the fact that whenever it suited Gianni to quote anything he’d read or heard elsewhere, his grasp of the English language suddenly became flawless. And FOR WHY???? Ultimately, he WOULDN’T HAVE WRITTEN THIS IN ENGLISH ANYWAY. HE’S VENETIAN. (I suspect there are some readers who would really enjoy this, but I am not one of them.)

So… I dunno. I did enjoy this book, mostly, and I have a huge appreciation for the work and background that went into writing it. And now please can I read a book with one narrator only who speaks in Received Pronunciation. Humbert Humbert or somebody. I don’t mind villains, as long as they’re articulate.

4.5, I liked it a lot.

I couldn't finish the book. I battled to make it halfway through then just gave up. It was so utterly boring and I disliked all the characters.