I’ve just finished reading Anthony Doerr’s All The Light We Cannot See.
I do most wholeheartedly recommend it.
What I am always looking for in a book – and unless it shows promise of coming through with this by at least a third of the way through, I won’t persist with it – is a voice for insight and compassion, a version of humanity worth the journey.
I also look for honesty, but I dislike the kind of tale that descends into prurience or voyeuristic delight in recounting details of suffering or private moments. It’s a fine balance, and Doerr does it with finesse.
All The Light We Cannot See is an astonishing feat of imagination – I’m not surprised it won the Pulitzer Prize. Doerr has a dazzlingly observant eye for detail and for human emotion.
It is such a beautiful, insightful and powerful work.
Just so you know – nobody asked me to review this or gave me a copy of it, and I don’t know Anthony Doerr. I just saw it reviewed, though it sounded good, and bought a copy. I wasn’t disappointed. As always, here and there my editorial fingers twitched a little, but only on tiny intrusive Americanisms that felt out of place in a European setting and version of events. It is, taken all round, quite brilliant.