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7 of 7 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
House of Sleep, March 8, 2001
The House of Sleep is with little doubt the most painstakingly constructed, carefully orchestrated work of fiction I've read. Similar efforts at formulaic writing are usually clever at best, or a mockery of themselves at worst, but Jonathan Coe has pulled off such a design with ingenuity and to great effect. On its surface, the story is not too striking, hence the reason I was not at first interested by reviews and comments. A group of students, each bearing a heavy burden of intriguing personality quirks and neuroses, meet while living in the same dormitory house, to find that twelve years later, their lives are still intricately related. Beautiful and fragile Sarah, a narcoleptic, has dreams so vivid that she (and by persuasion, sometimes others) mistake them for reality. Robert, a tortured individual who desparately loves her, can never seem to be the right person for her at the right moment. Terry, their friend, spends half his life in search of a lost Italian film, for which there's no evidence aside from a single photograph, to which references appear at odd times in others' dreams. Other characters include Ruby, the groundskeepers' daughter who has discovered that "people never lie when talking in their sleep," and Gregory, Sarah's first lover, who harbors an unnatural obsession with watching Sarah sleep. The cunning presentation of the novel, however, consists of its being told in two times at once, the early 80s and the mid 90s, but both in a chronological fashion, such that experiences in the past which trigger occurrences in the present and present revelations about past events occur in quick succession. Carefully placed epiphanies mark each chapter like milestones on the way through the plot of the book. The author also makes very adept use of varied narrative technique, including letters, transcripts, journal articles, along with characters' verbose descriptions of events, dreams, and memories, to add variety and strength to the writing. At the end of the novel, a collage of a poem (tidbits of which were scattered throughout the novel, as its author constructed it in his head), a letter, and a transcript provide a far more powerful depiction of denoument events than any narration alone could accomplish. The book is at times haunting, hypnotic, viciously humorous, and unceasingly disturbing, and forgiving a slightly melodramatic turn of events at its climax, serves as an extraordinary work of fiction.
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