The Thirteenth Tale is a book about books, as well as a book about stories. Diane Setterfield wrote penned this novel about an aging British author (Vida Winters) who has evaded all attempts to find out her background and her past.
Facing death she has invited a young amateur biographer to hear the truth of her life tale. Intrigued, said biographer (Margaret), comes to know Ms. Winters very well, guessing at the secrets in her past.
I read this book relatively quickly, as these things go recently. I took me two half days, made easier by having the large print version. It was also a quick read, in and of itself — not too mired down in its own seriousness, full of just enough intrigue to keep you turning the page.
**Minor Spoilers below **
The resolution of Ms. Winter’s story was relatively surprising on two levels, her own identity, which I did not guess outright until it was stated (though I had certainly caught the foreshadowing and hints) as well as the reality behind Emmeline. That, I never would have guessed at. Indeed I’m not even sure why it was included, as that twist seemed entirely unnecessary.
Indeed there were a few plot twists that seemed unnecessary — Margaret’s twinness, for one. Setterfield, it seems, wanted to mash as many twists and turns into this story as she could. She handles most of it well, even some of the stories that seem unnecessary keep you wanting to know more (see: Aurielius). But there are a lot of intertwining of relationships that are in the book just to have one more twist.
That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it. On the contrary, I enjoyed it immensely. I was surprised. Part of what drew me in were the descriptions from both Margaret and Vida about books, stories and reading. They felt very real, obviously written by someone who has enjoyed reading immensely.
This particular bit rings the most true for me, and it is when I knew I would forgive the book all its faults based solely on the fact that Setterfield (via Margaret) expressed something I have felt for a long time:
I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when it was not my greatest joy. And yet I cannot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet it is not the same. Books are, for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning one ever expects to be fulfilled.
In the end it feels like The Thirteenth Tale is just a well-written VC Andrews tale — instead of being told in the present it is a long-done history.