I’ve previously read Max Porter’s popular book Grief is the Thing With Feathers and not really liked it. But so popular is his writing that I thought I’d give it another go with Shy, a novella covering a few hours in the life of a troubled teenage boy.

Like the previous book, this just wasn’t up my street. The writing was a bit too abstract and confusing. Some people have described it as poetic, and perhaps it is, but it’s not a style of poetry with which I connect.

I don’t think I’d pick up another of Porter’s books, but mine seems to be a minority opinion, so don’t assume that you won’t like them.