I seem to be a freelance pop culture whore. I attach myself to things that I love and then I recommend them to everyone. It’s extreme to the point where people must seem to think that I am sponsored by The Wire, LOST, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Jasper Fforde, or Pixar. With Stuart Neville’s The Twelve, I am ready to whore once more.
This book is incredibly good. INCREDIBLY good. (Do they give awards for well written reviews because I think I have it in the bag this year.) The first chapter alone is so thrilling that it could have been slightly edited and repackaged as a fantastic short story. I was worried that it wouldn’t be able to keep up that momentum, but Neville appropriately knew how to play with pace and to show all the right perspectives at the right time.
I went into this book knowing absolutely nothing about it. All I knew was the title, author, and it may have something to do with Ireland. (It does.) It’s evident I’m stalling on telling you what it’s about. For I’m you to experience what I experienced: the cold realization of what the title means by the end of the first chapter. So I still won’t say anything. I’ll just say this is one of the best crafter thriller I’ve read in awhile equipped with a very compelling inner struggle. Oh yeah, this is also a first novel.
The Twelve opens in the U.K. and the Commonwealth on July 2nd
It comes out in America as The Ghosts of Belfast in October.
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