Every so often, a novel comes along that knocks me off my feet, ties me up and leaves me bound, unable to escape until I turn its final page. Even after that final page is turned though, these novels live in my memory, constanly ekeing their way into my thoughts and colouring my discussion of other, inferior novels. Ive been lucky enough to have this experience twice in the last handful of months; first with The Tigers Wife by Tea Obreht and now with The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern.
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The Night Circus is a classic novel that will sit on the highest shelf of my bookshelf, right next to The Hobbit and The Shadow of the Wind. If youre familiar with me or this blog, you will know that that is not praise lightly given. It calls back to a time when there was still magic in the circus, when slack-jawed carnies, enormous teddy bears and rigged ring-toss was nothing but a far-off thought. The majority of my time spent reading The Night Circus was in the early morning, before the sun rose, and at bedtime, while the moon hung in the sky and darkness blanketed the world. During the daylight hours, when I was not reading The Night Circus, I thought of little else, and I think Chandresh Christophe Lefèvre, proprietor of Le Cirque des Rêves, would be proud. In a way, I wish I could have written this review with less superlatives, more critical analysis, but I struggled mightily with the effort. So, instead, I write of the joy I found in The Night Circus. Theres magic in this novel and it deserves to be read by anyone wanting to be reminded that there is more to life than meets the eye.