I need to think about the rating and review for novel. It has me flummoxed in a way I haven’t been over a book before. While I was trawling Melbourne bookstores for a copy (which was a saga in itself) I had a discussion with a bookseller about Tender Morsels. In passing, I mentioned the brouhaha it had been caught up in a while ago, (along with several other novels), over its inclusion a feminist YA reading list. The subsequent fallout and discussion made for interesting reading, specifically where it touched on the various interpretations of Tender Morsels and it’s undeniably difficult content. However, the bookseller just shrugged, as if the storm in an internet teacup was hardly worth deigning to notice. “Margo Lanagan,” he said, “is an artist.”Having now finished Tender Morsels, I’m not going to argue with that. I’m not sure I have ever read a book like this, a chimera of the beautiful and the repulsive. While part of my mind was entangled in the lush, complex writing, part of me felt uneasy and troubled (which is a credit to Lanagan, who unsettles the reader masterfully). Is it art? Undoubtedly. Am I in awe of it? Completely. Did I like it? I don’t know. Full review to come. * * * *Huzzah! Success! *throws confetti* Now to readalong with Miss Leanne. * * * * I've been running backwards and forwards across Melbourne to hunt a copy of this down.. Elusive book, you will be mine!