you are an astute reader of plotless, postmodern literary fiction. your tastes are erudite, intellectual, far above genre drivel that hits the nyt best sellers list—WRONG!!! i’m hitting an imaginary buzzer and the floor drops from under you and you are now stuck in a SAW style torture chamber with nothing but a copy of The Likeness by Tana French. i am forcing you to read until you are ready to admit that there’s nothing quite like an irish detective novel—it’s dark and twisty but perfectly paced, the suggestion of magic lightly touches each book, not the magic of fantasy but a magic of history carved into a lush landscape, of dark corners, of old manor houses and small stone cottages, of inherited feuds, and of prickly, strange and special characters. you will love tana french or i’m never letting u outta this fucking cage okay