The Beast's Heart
The magical tale of Beauty and the Beast, reimagined from the Beast's point of view
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- 3,49 €
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- 3,49 €
Beschreibung des Verlags
A sumptuously magical, brand new take on a tale as old as time - read the Beast's side of the story at long last.
'Utterly Enchanting' - Kate Forsyth, author of Bitter Greens and The Wild Girl
'A beautiful retelling . . . poetical, imaginative, inventive' - New York Journal of Books
'5 out of 5 stars . . . magical romance at its best' - Sam Hawke, author of City of Lies
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I am neither monster nor man - yet I am both.
I am the Beast.
I know why I was cursed; I know the legacy of evil I carry in my tainted blood. So how could she ever love me?
My Isabeau. She opened my eyes, my mind and my heart when I was struggling just to be human.
And now I might lose her forever.
Lose yourself in this gorgeously rich and magical retelling of The Beauty and the Beast that finally lays bare the beast's heart.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
Shallcross's dense and discomfiting fantasy debut retells "Beauty and the Beast" from the perspective of the Beast: brooding 17th-century French nobleman Julien Courseilles, desperately lonely after centuries under a green-eyed fairy's curse. Julien's efforts to regain his humanity intensify after he spies honey-haired Isabeau de la Noue in her father's dreams. Julien coerces her to his ensorcelled woodland chateau, and compassionate Isabeau agrees to stay one year. When Julien realizes marrying her could break the curse, he bombards her with proposals while secretly spying on her family to find the key to her heart before time is up. The original tale's abusive subtext becomes unpleasant text in this version: men habitually call stalking "courtship," women romanticize Isabeau's abduction, and Isabeau never developed past blond hair and compulsive caretaking is desperately depressed. Julien's occasional moments of self-awareness swiftly yield to selfishness and violence. What results is a skin-crawling, obsessive quest to manipulate love from a kidnapped woman. Shallcross's lush imagery cannot redeem a plot mired in self-pitying, romanticized abuse.
