In a year full of very funny books, Maria Vale’s MOLLY MOLLOY AND THE ANGEL OF DEATH (Sungrazer, 273 pp., paperback, $14.99) was hands down the funniest, as sharp and stunning as a bracing slap to the face.
Death as a love interest is not unknown in the genre, but usually it’s a sexy Death, like Lee Pace from “Pushing Daisies” or the brooding Hades from the gorgeous art of “Lore Olympus.” Death as Vale depicts him is an awkward, traumatized immortal struggling to understand humanity. This book creates its own language, and the romance beats are syncopated and complex, avoiding predictability while still offering the full-throated catharsis I’m in this for. Strange, sly and absolutely unforgettable.
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