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adult, book, book expectations, books, death, expectations, fiction, imaginings, jeffrey eugenides, life, Lisbon sisters, mental health, novels, reading, sisters, suicide, the virgin suicides, young adult, young adult fiction
I’d wanted to read The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides for a long time. Ever since I saw the cover, the word ‘suicide’ above a young girl lying on a patch of bright green grass, brown shoes, white tights and a pink dress conveying her youth and innocence, I was intrigued.
I’d heard it was really good, great, amazing and had seen book posters proclaiming it “bewitching” (Vogue) and even “one of the finest novels in many years – a Catcher in the Rye for our time” (Observer). And so it came to pass that instead of picking up a copy and turning to the blurb or searching for the synopsis on Wikipedia, I imagined what I thought the novel was about.
