Adam L.G. Nevill is fast becoming my favourite modern horror writer. In fact, the only reason I'm still reading horror written by anyone born after 1950 at all is the muscular Mr. Nevill, who has a knack for, among many things, inventive and original imagery. He doesn't talk down to his readers (I like writers who aren't afraid of making you think), and, as American culture threatens, like The Blob, to overrun the world, this author's work reads gloriously, fabulously, *English*.
Mr. Nevill's speciality is riffing off the masters of supernatural horror (Monty and Shirley in APARTMENT 16, Blackwood and Machen in THE RITUAL), bringing them completely up-to-date. Reading 'The Willows', one finds that Algy can be tough going; Nevill creates a tense, mysterious foreboding with atmosphere and short chapters rather than obtuseness. He populates his story with real people whom, whether we like them or not, we are guaranteed to recognise.
I've had to put this book down a few times to catch my breath, not just to recover from the fear and claustrophobic conditions Nevill so brilliantly conjures, but to think about the questions he raises. Have we wasted our lives if we don't spend them as society dictates? Was Dr. Johnson spot-on, or a knob, when he declared any person tired of London is tired of life? (This book brings to mind that other great describer of the London I hate, Jean Rhys.) Is there any point in quitting smoking when one is fated to be eviscerated young? Well, maybe one should, at least, give up smoking OP (Other People's) cigs (take note, you so-called quitters).
Adam Nevill's accomplishment is in creating a fresh and original work from recognisable components, which I heartily applaud--in any craft, it's important to know your roots--and making it look easy. I also like his exploring, as he did in APARTMENT 16, the type of protagonist that sadly seemed to die with Robert Aickman, the so-called 'loser'--failure, in literature, is much more interesting than success. This book's hip, too, being right in sync with the love affair the British presently have with all things Scandanavian. Though Neville's Sweden doesn't read like anywhere I'll be visiting soon; it sounds too much like a wet winter's weekend, complete with Blood Frenzy wannabes, in Dwygyfylchi.
Adam Nevill is the real deal. Buy this book--you won't be disappointed (unless you prefer reading dreck). My only complaint is that I cannot get hold of his first novel. It would be great if someone could see their way to re-publishing BANQUET FOR THE DAMNED, as I'm sure I'm not the only Nevill fan who would love (hint hint) to read it.