The Seven Deaths Of Evelyn Hardcastle

I love it so much! At first it was a bit difficult for me to get into the story, because it was confusing. But after that, I couldn´t stop reading and it was so worth it. The whole concept of the story with the time loop was really well executed and super intriguing. Just read it

Das Buch selbst war ein Geschenk, da ich es vor einer Weile schon selbst gelesen hatte und es echt faszinierend fand. Am Anfang wird man einfach so in die Erzählung reingeschmissen, was komisch erscheint jedoch mit dem ganzen Twist und turns des Buches es am Ende super genial macht. Man bekommt nach einer Weile eine Idee was passiert ist und wie es zum Tod von Evelyn Hardcastle kommt, jedoch ist es am Ende ganz anders und das macht das Buch so gut. Wie bereits oben beschrieben definitiv und absolut empfehlenswert!!!!

From the start, I just loved this book because it is so special. The atmosphere, the mysteries, the different characters, suprising turns..... Highly recommendable!!! Definitely one of my favourites.

Alles begann damit, dass Stuart Turton alle Agatha-Christie-Romane gelesen hatte. Immer wieder versuchte er einen Kriminalroman zu schreiben, nur um festzustellen, dass es alle verschiedenen Wendungen, merkwürdige Charaktere und erzählerische Tricks schon gegeben hat. Bis er zehn Jahre später auf sein absolut geniale Idee kam: Ein Thriller, in dem der Hauptprotagonist, Aiden Bishop, immer wieder den selben Tag erlebt; und zwar in sieben verschiedenen Körpern einer Party-Gesellschaft um die Jahrhundertwende. Er soll den Mord an Evelyn Hardcastle lösen, der unweigerlich jeden Abend um 11 Uhr stattfinden wird. Jeder Körper bringt so seine individuellen Schwierigkeiten mit sich, aber jeden Tag kommt er der Wahrheit immer ein wenig näher. Sollte er aber nach sieben Tagen den Täter nicht kennen, wird er wieder von Vorne beginnen müssen und sein Gedächtnis verlieren. Dieser einzigartige Roman ist so genial verschachtelt konstruiert. Zwischendurch dachte ich, ich verliere den Überblick, doch dann haben sich die verschiedenen Ereignisse so sinnvoll wieder ineinander gefügt, dass ich selber bis zum Schluss mit Aiden und Anna (wer auch immer sie ist...) mitgefiebert habe. Ich bewundere Stuart Turton, für dieses Meisterwerk, denn es war wohl auch eine enorme Fleissarbeit, die Ereignisse so aufeinander abzustimmen. Er selbst hat drei Monate eine riesige Wand mit Post-Its und einer gigantischen Zeittafel beschrieben und sich selbst im Wald in absoluter Dunkelheit verlaufen. Dabei nicht zu vergessen, dass jeder Gast, in dem Aiden sich befindet, seine eigene individuelle Geschichte und Eigenschaften hat. Ich wünsche Allen, die mal was ganz anderes geniales lesen wollen, viel Spaß.

I’m in two minds about this one. Admittedly, it’s a classic whodunnit in a “very English” 1920s country house setting, with an admirable abundance of clever twists, playing with every cliché imaginable. The language is beautiful, poetic, and nothing short of scrumptious. “The air is heavy, sweet with perfume, stirred only by a scratchy music that soars and glides and stuns itself against the walls. Large leaded windows look out over the garden at the rear of the house, grey clouds piling up beyond a cupola. Chairs and chaise lounges have been gathered around the fire, young women draped over them like wilted orchids, smoking cigarettes and clinging to their drinks.” “The gatehouse is narrow and crooked, doors into the walls at odd angles like teeth grown wild in a mouth. Wind whistles through the windows carrying with it the smell of rain, the entire place seeming to rattle on its foundations.” I wish Edward Gorey could have illustrated the book; his style would have matched the weirdness and outlandishness just perfectly. And yet, the novelty of the “Groundhog Day” structure started to wear off about one third into it. All these names and characters, half the time I went, “wait, who?” I almost felt pressured into starting my own wall of post-its, charts and timetables, if I really wanted to get it all. On the whole it is repetitive and can get tiring. For example, there is no end of trees. There’s a lot of being among trees, going through trees, disappearing into trees, standing in the trees, coming out of the trees, heading into trees, emerging from trees. Characters are surrounded by trees, are keeping to the trees, keep going towards the trees and deeper into the trees, scattering from the trees, screaming through the trees. They are looking around at the trees, looking for people in the trees, glancing towards trees, squinting at the trees, scouring the trees. There are trees drawing closer, trees have grown close, trees are giving way, there are trees leaning in, there are gaps in the trees. There are things obscured by trees, shielded by trees, framed by trees. Trees fall, trees drip, trees break suddenly, trees are bent low, there are huddling trees. There’s the gloom of the trees and the blackness of trees, in the end there are even cardboard trees. (Although I do love trees.) So yes, perhaps it’s all a bit much. On a meta-level, the author’s dilemma may be the same as his character’s who is afraid of “becoming the architect of the misery you’re trying to prevent.” Alternatively, it could all be ironic. Eventually, I had it read to me by British actor Jot Davies, narrating it with a wonderfully crisp King’s English, impersonating all the characters and bringing them to life with a phantastic range of accents. Even so, there was a certain dreariness that I found somewhat tedious.