Last Night in Montreal is a mystery. Three young people endeavor to discover the roots of their respective self-destructive paths. WHAT TERRIBLE SECRETS COULD ACCOUNT FOR THESE PECULIAR EVENTS, etc. It doesn’t pander, and it’s not one of those awful books about miserable people being miserable. It’s more of a… a relatively bright postcard delivered from a very dark place. It’s not without flaw; there are moments of heavy-handed coincidence, but these are small gripes. At core, it’s a compelling story, told with tension and compassion. At its best moments, it reminded me of Never Let Me Go. At its worst, it reminded me of Tana French. But I love Tana French, so.
Oh, I almost forgot, I meant to give you a passage:
He wished to come home one evening and perform a pulling-together motion, like tying a piece of string; he spent a great deal of time thinking about how he could achieve this, and these notes felt like preparation; at some point, he felt, he’d have amassed enough evidence to have a complete picture of the situation, at which point he could act decisively and pull things back together again.
There were a few days when he felt that the preparations were going smoothly, that he was approaching the level of understanding that he needed, but then there was a tie he didn’t recognize on the floor of his closet. He saw it when he was getting dressed on a particular morning, a week or two after the cufflink; it lay discarded, as if thrown carelessly from elsewhere in the room. But the angle didn’t work; he’d tried to throw things into the closet often enough to know that it just wasn’t possible.