I’ve done it.
I’ve finished Libba Bray’s “The Sweet Far Thing”.
And I can’t say it gives me closure.
The problem with trilogies is that they sort of leave you wanting more. You’ve come this far, combed through a thousand-odd combined pages, and you feel like you know these people, love them.
The familiarity is oddly satisfying.
But then everything comes to an abrupt close, if you can call eight hundred or so pages abrupt.
The final novel in Libba Bray’s Gemma Doyle trilogy begins sluggishly, constantly referencing the first two. I found this unnecessary, honestly. People don’t just pick up the third book in a trilogy. It’s too weird a thing to do. So if I’m reading this book, Ms. Bray, chances are I’ve read the first two. No need to remind me. I’ve slugged through lengthier book series (series-es?), so I suppose my mind can hold on to details from just two other novels, thank you very much.
Still, Bray finds her voice back halfway into the thick tome, which is much welcome.
Without giving away too much, the final novel offers bittersweet endings and new beginnings. I’m not saying it’s unsatisfying a conclusion, but Libba Bray, you broke my heart. Because I love Kartik, and I love Gemma and aaaggghhhhhh I have no words, woman.
I really haven’t outgrown my childhood fear of Indians and their jute sacks, but Kartik and his cinnamon kisses have won me over. Le sigh.
Ah, Libba Bray, you horrid, horrid woman.