The White Peacock

Well. The White Peacock. Let me start with this: it's hot and cold. And I would know. This book burns with promise. You can tell it’s the author’s first go because there’s so much passion packed into it, almost like he thought the pages might melt if he held back. Nature isn’t just scenery here—it’s alive, pressing against your skin like summer heat before a thunderstorm. The man clearly loves the land, and when he writes about it, it’s fire. But when he writes about people? Sometimes it fizzles. The main character, Lettie, is... complicated. Strong, proud, and kind of infuriating. She’s caught between a grounded, brooding farmer (who’s full of spark, honestly) and some cultured, deadweight gentleman who’s about as exciting as wet wood. Guess who she picks? Yep. Disappointment is too mild a word. It’s a bit like watching someone set their own heart on fire and call it a happy ending. Stylistically? Let’s just say there are a lot of flowers in this garden. The prose tries too hard sometimes. I like heat in writing, but this is molten sap—beautiful, sure, but sticky and slow-moving in places. Still, the emotional core is strong. You can feel that the writer wants to say something big—something about how civilization snuffs out instinct, how passion gets trampled under manners and marriage. And honestly? I get it. But here’s the thing: it's not fun. It's not snappy. It's not tight. It simmers, but it doesn’t ignite. You’ll find a few burning lines, and then pages where the firewood is all damp description and wandering thoughts. I wanted more blaze, more bite, more clarity. So: three stars. One for the atmosphere, one for the raw honesty, one for the potential. The rest? Burned away by indecision, overripe language, and characters who needed to stop thinking and start doing. Still, if you’re into early 20th century soul-searching with a rustic mood and a slow build, give it a shot. Just don’t expect it to explode. Not yet.