I have just finished reading The People in the Trees, literally just an hour ago, and am unable to move. Unable to think of anything else. Unable to, truly, normalize my emotions. When I read The Martian, I thought I was in for a treat; and I claimed, during that time, that it was the best book I’ve read up until that point. Well, that point has passed. The People in the Trees has introduced me to an entirely new set of emotions that I, surprisingly, didn’t know a novel could. Isn’t that strange? After all these years of reading, no book that I can think of has paralyzed me into sitting in place after finishing, staring a hole into the wall in front of me, trying (desperately) to understand what to feel. Was it a good story? Yes. Did it keep me intrigued throughout? Yes, very much so. But, what made it so special? For one, the writing style. Despite the ramblings and sometimes mundane descriptions, I found them (by the end) necessary.

Two, the story moves in a fearless and slow way, revealing so little at a time, it almost made me want to scream. It was an unraveling thriller in a way I genuinely did not expect — I didn’t know it was a thriller until I finished it and felt, at the very least, THRILLED!

Three, it does what a novel should: introduce a new culture in every way possible. Its discoveries, traditions, differences , ways of survival, ways of loving, ways of hating. There was absolutely nothing cliche about it. It, finally, slapped me in the face and forced me out of my comfort zone.

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