![]() Rather, I sensed that something terrible was happening just out of sight. Eventually, I began to mistrust every word-not because of the potential dishonesty of the characters, and not because the artifice in Schweblin’s conceit was becoming unwieldy. ![]() The reader begins to feel as if she is Amanda, tethered to a conversation that thrums with malevolence but which provides the only alternative to the void. In Fever Dream, every body is a shell for another voice, another presence. Intertwined, these two dialogues form a shadow of an explanation-one that runs on nightmare logic, inexorable but elusive, and always just barely out of reach. Schweblin sustains both conversations while narrowing them toward a single question: the mysterious horror of the worms. ![]() No previous book, at least, has filled me with unease the way Fever Dream did. ![]()
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