An acerbic, unflinching commentary on the messy, cavernous laceration of girlhood.

Half His Age is a story about feminine rage, but not the screaming, crying, throwing dishes kind. It's the quiet aftermath. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at your mascara-streaked tear stains in the mirror as the last scrap of imagined power drains out of you, feeling hollow and slightly humiliated as you settle into the realization that you're trapped in a cycle that you can't quite name.

It's a story about agency, and lack thereof. How systems and cycles outside of our control force us into survival, force us into clawing for anything that brings relief, anything that we can latch onto for control, anything to satiate the empty feeling we don't want to address. Even when we know it's not good for us, we cling to it anyway.

It's a brutally realistic portrayal of a girl parentified, who learned early on that being chosen and being loved meant self-abandonment, meant playing a role, meant picking up the pieces of everyone around her even if it meant falling apart.

Each chapter is told like a snapshot memory, focusing in on a single detail as it zooms out to capture the scene in its entirety. McCurdy's writing is raw and full of a clarity that demands rapt attention. The short chapters mean that every word matters, every symbol is packed with meaning, every moment is layered with threads begging to be unraveled.

The narrative centers entirely on Waldo's inner monologue to a claustrophobic degree. Her inner state seesaws between numb cynicism and frantic, all-consuming anxiety. Many of her thoughts are twisted reflections of the harsh lessons learned through parentification, through cultural conditioning and societal expectation. In every moment, Waldo's emotional state is almost unbearably palpable. She's unreliable but legible, impulsive but empathetic.

Your eyes want to look away, to spare her from having witnesses to her dysfunction, but behind it is a low-grade hum of resignation as you feel the inevitability coming toward you in every choice she makes. Yet your heart wants to keep watching, propelled forward by clinging to the tiniest shred of hope that she might hit a wall, wake up, and escape the cycle. Because if Waldo can escape the cycle, it might mean that you can, too.

Threaded through Waldo's experience are McCurdy's ruminations on systems that tear away the agency of women and girls. Capitalism that forces us into competition, consumerism that sells us products to fix issues invented by the market, patriarchy that teaches us that being chosen by a man is the ultimate form of salvation. That if we look and act just so, and buy the right products to get us there, and consume the right content that makes us one nudge better than the girls around us, we might get lucky enough to be chosen, to mean something, to matter.

It examines the idea of desire from a feminine perspective, its imposed limitations and expectations. The false sense of agency that women are given by performing sexuality, because it's the only place their needs and desires can be contained without being minimized, ridiculed, or dismissed.

Deeply uncomfortable, intentional, and wrapped in rough edges and messy choices that don't ask for forgiveness, just a witness.

I received an ALC of this title in exchange for an honest review.

“You cannot change what you are given, cannot bend or alter what is dealt to you.”

This piece has very quickly become my favorite title of all time.

The mastery of language that Maggie O’Farrell employs in this novel is captivating; once you’re hooked on the story, you will not be able to stop until it’s 12:45am on a Thursday and you’re crying in your bed having just read the final page. Her characters are some of the most palpable I have ever read. I understand each and every one of them for where they are at in each individual moment; I know what has brought them to the present and can intone where they feel they should go next. Agnes is my friend. Her grief is mine.

I’ve always been a fan of historical fiction, especially that which has a bit of fun, imbues whimsy between the records, and this book does just that. Its exploration of themes such as abuse, grief, and love are some of the best I’ve seen in a work of fiction. I love that each mentioned character has a purpose, that we the readers get to see inside their heads for a glimpse, that we are privileged to see just how intertwined the story of humanity is. It makes the conveyed emotions that much deeper, seeing them reflected not only in the characters around the primary cast, but in ourselves. I would bet good money that there are few people who have come out of reading this book not having felt each of the characters’ emotions as deeply and greatly as they themselves were written to have experienced it.

This is hands down a six star read. I cannot wait to watch the film.

I genuinely believe that this book is one that will be discussed and lauded for centuries to come.

Margaret Atwood expertly captured the impact of abstract concepts such as power, control, patriarchy, misogyny, authoritarianism, fascism, and complicity in a way that makes them tangible, believable, and human. I think a huge part of what humanized this story is the stream-of-consciousness style of narration. The main character perceives the present while remembering the past, seeing and noticing the small changes that led to the world she lives in now, all intermingled with her emotions, her desire to not remember, her inability to forget, and her struggle to navigate it all.

Genuinely one of the best books I have ever read and an immediate favorite. It is a horrifying, chilling, and intense read, but it is expertly executed.