My Rating:

Favorite Quotes:

I avoid my own reflection because I self-identify with Medusa, the Gorgon with coiled snakes hissing about her head, a woman constantly terrified of accidentally turning herself to stone.

John looks my way, as though waiting for something, and I suddenly realise I am the one who has to give permission for an examination. It’s a curious realisation. I’ve always been the child in this family. Told what to do, how to behave, and rarely given choices. Now, with my mother gone, and my father lost in his dementia, I’m the adult. I’m not sure I like the responsibility.

My Review:

Several hours after reading this unusual and unpredictable tale I am still at odds and a bit conflicted on what to think. The Hive has an excellent premise and was cleverly laced together with unexpected twists and turns, but it was also a somewhat frustrating read as the story spun slowly in peculiar and intriguing tangents while I struggled with the main character who was rather pathetic, easily addled, and extremely gullible, despite being highly paranoid. Charlotte moved and processed thought at remedial sloth speed and tended to leave messes everywhere as she was inattentive and prone to unproductive preoccupation, circular thinking, and dithering her time away. Her high gear was that of a small tortoise and she was often stunned into immobility. She was exasperating.

So, I have established that Charlotte annoyed me, and in no small measure, but something sinister was happening and someone was messing with poor pitiable Charlotte, and as I am a scrappy advocate who is always team underdog, I was resolute in figuring out the who and the why. I conjured and purged numerous theories as to who was playing her – was it the father, the boyfriend, the nurse, the Dr; was she being gaslighted or did she have a dissociative identity disorder and doing it to herself; or was she unraveling and losing what little sense she had?

Jane Holland had her crafty hooks deeply embedded in my curiosity. My brain was on fire and I was helplessly intrigued while the tale just kept getting deeper, wider, and creepier. I decided it was brilliant after all and the diabolical Jane Holland should have her own holiday named for her, despite deviling me so with the truly maddening pace of her story.

In addition to giving me ragged cuticles, Ms. Holland also provided me with two new additions to my Brit List with: His Nibs – a title mockingly bestowed to any male who was over-served with self-importance; and bog-standard – which means basic, ordinary, and uninspired – and keep in mind they call their toilet paper bog roll. I cannot wait to utilize my newly acquired and highly sophisticated Brit lexicon during a trip across the pond, I have every expectation that someday I’ll even be able to cut glass…