I have been having a terrible reading streak and then THIS IN MY MAILBOX! Meg Rosoff, cures what ails you (unless diabetes ails you, in which case: insulin).
Ok so what if the God of Earth wasn’t beardy and sky-bound or sculpted and Olympus-bound or I am going to betray my cultural idiocy if I list any more gods and their living quarters but WHAT IF all iterations of God were actually just a teenage boy with a shoddy work ethic? The LOLs!
Bob’s mom won Earth in a poker game but no one wanted it so she gave it to her son and was like, Here, create some things, and now it is either thousands or billions of years later (depending on your Young Earth/Old Earth predilictions) and the only reason things keep spinning is because BobGod’s ‘very own personal bore,’ Mr B, keeps nagging him to do his damned chores (such chores including the maintenance of weather etc).
And then Bob falls in love and suddenly we are in a Cialis commercial, with tulips popping open and rainbows arcing in profusion across the sky. God in love = atmospheric disturbances (and also complications when the love-object, Lucy, is all Tell me about your family and also your childhood and your job and so on).
And a book about God is never going to escape Musings On Serious Topics, but here they are disguised as Brain Babbles, which is how I like my musings. Mr B wants badly to quit this mess but he CAN’T because GodBob had given him the creation-reins for a second and he had made WHALES and he LOVES them and can’t LEAVE them to their well-hunted fate. BobGod’s pet eck, Eck (last eck in the world), is lost in a bet and sentenced to be eaten and must confront his own ecky mortality.
Between GodBob and Lucy, Lucy and her job at the zoo and her glowery boss Luke, Mr B and his imminent resignation, the eck, the daughter of the guy who wants to eat the eck whom I forgot to mention, and BobGod’s interfering mother (and Lucy’s interfering mother, and the vicar of whom she [the mother] is inappropriately fond), there are PLOT THREADS AHOY. And then in the end all they all come together, like in Snatch but with MUCH less shooting or being eaten by pigs, and it is delightful.
*bites pipe stem in preparation for pontificating* Was it Coleridge who aimed to make the strange familiar? Methinks so (English 325 was a long time ago, but I think Wordsworth was the one wanting to make the familiar strange, which I am less amused by as that line of thinking seems to have brought us magical realism). Anyway, Rosoff is Coleridgean, in that her books range in concept from slightly to extremely weird, but the weird is infinitely readable, and quietly hilarious.
(Also, Rosoff is clearly the mother of teenagers because the subtext is very Teenage people! Hope of the future and brimming with creative powers and also ugh they are the worst amirite.)
Deep and sharp and peppered with tiny jokes and uproarious insights disguised as tiny jokes and eight and a half caterpillars.
Requisite ass-covering: book received from publisher. Book not published until September which makes this review terribly timed but I HAD TO TELL YOU about it and I will remind you again in September that you want to have it.