Three generations of women hold the central parts in Gingerbread: teenaged Perdita, her mother Harriet, and Harriet’s mother Margot. That tension, and Oyeyemi’s extraordinary imagination, lift Gingerbread well above the average literary fantasy and make it something lasting, something rich and lovely and tangy and dark – like the dessert of its title. The genius of Oyeyemi’s writing lies in the collision of fantastical whimsy with acidic malice this is not a fairy tale where the reader feels safe entering the forest, because it’s not at all certain that the cute children will ever come out again. Its language is heady and attention-getting: “Flowers wilt and shed mottled petals, mold blooms greenish-white on chocolate truffles, and Harriet’s gingerbread hunkers down in its tin, no more attractive than the day it arrived, but no more repellent either.” But it’s also a whimsical, unlikely novel of fictional countries, talking dolls, and ghostly realms. Make no mistake: Helen Oyeyemi’s sixth novel is literary fiction, with a profound central metaphor and wandering, unfixed storylines.
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