I’m not going to review Chime. I won’t tell you how I bought the book after others raved about it, or how it’s a good thing I heard the news since I might not have picked it up on my own, what with a cover that looks like every other young adult paranormal romance.
I won’t tell you how insanely stupid I was to think this was A. a paranormal romance or B. like any other book.
I’d be foolish of me to go on and on about Franny Billingsley’s lyrical prose and the way she conjures images effortlessly. The way she creates a world that’s at once magical and foreign and at the same time real, like a page out of history.
A lot of reviewers would probably mention the way the story is flawlessly stitched together or how each page is filled with mystery and beauty and the feeling of evil hiding in the dark places. But I’m not going to.
Everyone always asks about the romance, but I don’t plan on telling you anything about it. And that’s the truth.
Most of all, I’ll never explain how Chime touches on self-acceptance and guilt and hate in a way no other young adult book does. It would be pointless for me to do so.
Because reviewing Chime is a waste of time, especially since no review can explain the book’s perfection. Especially when five words say it all: Go. Buy. This. Book. Now.