"On one hand, I appreciated the gray of this story, because trauma and the idea of passing it on (or trying not to) should be gray, as should the difficulty of communicating across generations. Nimura's art also skilfully leads the reader's eyes through the story with minimal black and white style.

On the other hand Sergeant is a racist, homophobic, traumatized asshole who allows his shit to hit everyone around him, and the book, in my opinion, comes off as too easy on him. Unlike in many cop stories, I don't get the impression that Sergeant is doing the best that he can, and despite that, is screwing up his relationships and the lives of the people he cares about. It doesn't seem like he's trying particularly hard, and we have to hear it from the dialog of some random cameo Black cop who is sympathetic that we should cut Sergeant slack because he was raised with toxic masculinity culture. :eye roll: Maybe he should learn to apologize and try harder. It also bugs me that it's somehow Sergeant's son's job to help "fix" him. It is never a child's "responsibility" to take care of their parents, but it *is* a testament to how well the child was raised and loved if they choose to. (In this case, Sergeant is lucky his kid ended up with two moms to love him, mitigating the damage of his abandonment and emotional abuse.)"

"I wanted to read Demon Copperhead, and, as I had actually never read this, I decided to tackle them in tandem, reading a bit of Copperfield and then catching up to that point in Copperhead, then switching back. Not only has it increased my appreciation for Copperhead, but I'm so glad that I finally read this. Sure, it gets really rambly in the third quarter, and there are some subplots that I didn't care about, but it's still such a great read-- and surprisingly funny in parts. Still working on finishing Copperhead, but I can tell it's going to be another 5-star finish."

"I had an incredibly hard time reading this book, especially considering it's a 300-page linear story about an evil circus coming to a small town. I think it's because -- unlike Fahrenheit 451 -- Bradbury overwrote this book to the point of it being dense poetry rather than prose. The dialogue is sparse and stilted, and the descriptions are never-ending, and hard to follow.

Reading the opening chapter, the language excited me. I falsely assumed it was just being used to set the mood and would taper off in due course, but it never ended. I wanted to scream at the book: "I get it -- the story is dark, macabre, spooky, and ethereal. Enough! Let the story through!"

An example:

It was indeed a time between, one second their thoughts all brambled airedale, the next all silken slumbering cat. It was a time to go to bed, yet still they lingered reluctant as boys to give over and wander in wide circles to pillow and night thoughts. It was a time to say much but not all. It was a time after first discoveries but not last ones. It was wanting to know everything and wanting to know nothing. It was the new sweetness of men starting to talk as they must talk. It was the possible bitterness of revelation.

And another example, this one during an action sequence:

Then the arrow, a long hour it seemed in flight, razored a small vent in the balloon. Rapidly the shaft sank as if cutting a vast green cheese. The surface slit itself further in a wide ripping smile across the entire surface of the gigantic pear, as the blind Witch gabbled, moaned, blistered her lips, shrieked in protest, and Will hung fast, hands gripped to wicker, kicking legs, as the balloon wailed whiffled, guzzled, mourned its own swift gaseous death, as dungeon air raved out, as dragon breath gushed forth and the bag, thus driven, retreated up.

By the final third of the book, I was skimming entire paragraphs just to get through the book. Sadly, an interesting premise is lost somewhere in this mess. I am looking forward to reading the graphic novel adaptation, to see if a medium shift can cure the problem created by the bloated prose."