Haddon achieves a remarkable mélange of streams of consciousness, snatches of books, music, TV, private thoughts, lists, letters, all intertwined with sharply observed vignettes of everyday banality, soaring flights of description and odd bursts of heavy-handed portentousness. Numinous evocations of the landscape join the mix, meditations on the old house's history and past inhabitants, its physical and qualitative place in reality. Watching over it all from the hill above, projected there by the unresolved grief of her mother, is the ghost of Karen, "little monster, features melted into the centre of her face".
Bron: The Guardian
The Red House / Mark Haddon
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