I don’t remember where I first heard about The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, but I remember immediately heading to Amazon and adding it to my Wishlist. When I saw the book for only $3 one day, I couldn’t resist.

Twenty pages in I set the book aside, went to Amazon’s website, and searched for Setterfield’s other works because I knew I wanted to read anything else she wrote. Imagine my eyes when I learned that this was her debut novel. (I’m nowhere near finished with this book—only on page 57—and I’m already hoping it won’t be her last.)

Setterfield’s prose is so languid that I wanted to drown in it. From the first page it was like I was standing at the edge of something great, staring out into the vastness of it and knowing there was something more lurking just beneath the surface, and I had to dive in—a leap of faith if you will—and allow myself to be dragged down deeper until all is revealed. It’s so rare nowadays that I find a novel like that.

This is one of those books that I want to read fast, but am forcing myself to read slowly, so I can savour it.

(As an aside: If the actual story turns out to be a dud when I turn the final page, I’m going to be upset. I’ll want to weep because such beautiful prose should not be wasted on a substandard story.)