The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This is my second reading of The Last Werewolf. The first time I read it took me a month. This time, four days. That’s still too long—this book should be devoured in one sitting. I blame only myself, a recent minor illness breaking up my ability to concentrate.
Hopefully I am back in the saddle, as I have the sequel to read, Talulla Rising. Indeed, that’s why I reread The Last at all, so I could better appreciate Talulla.
Duncan is a writer to be reckoned with. His literary style is dense, flowing, beautiful. The kind of writing that’s almost too excquisite—I found myself shaking my head more than a few times, thinking “damn, this guy’s good,” which unfortunately took me out of the narrative. Again, I blame myself. Otherwise, Duncan’s writing style is immersive.
And he handles the subject matter with so much grace and wisdom it defies classification as any kind of genre fiction. This is not horror (although there’s horror). This is a literary novel that has as its subject a man who turns into a beast, and revels in his own self-hate and bloodlust.
There’s an additional layer, too, to The Last, a kind of tongue-in-cheek humor that pokes fun at genre fiction in general, vampire fiction in particular, and post-empire British ennui. This thread is not overt, and can be ignored if you like. But obviously, Duncan’s got more to offer, for those who want it, than just a monster feeding on viscera.
However, if you like, there’s plenty of offal as well. Dig in.