Synopsis: (Taken from Amazon.com)

The Resurrectionist is a wild ride into a territory where nothing is as it appears. Part classic noir thriller, part fabulist fable, it is the story of Sweeney and his comatose son, Danny. Hoping for a miracle, Sweeney has brought Danny to the fortresslike Peck Clinic, whose doctors claim to have “resurrected” patients who were similarly lost in the void. but the real cure for his son’s condition may lie in Limbo, a comic book world beloved by Danny before he slipped into a coma.

O’Connell has crafted a spellbinding novel about stories and what they can do for and to those who create them and those who consume them. About the nature of consciousness and the power of the unknown. And, ultimately, about forgiveness and the depth of our need to extend it and receive it.

Review:

Looking at the cover and reading the synopsis, I thought for sure I would absolutely love it. Though upon reading it – I found myself.. in this bizarre sense of confusion. (Bizarre being the right word). For this whole book is just that – bizarre.

The first character we meet is Sweeney, a pharmacist who applies for a job at some sort of hospital where most of it’s patients are comatose – just as his son is after a horrible accident. Whether he initially expressed how his son was injured, I do not know. I want to say he mentioned it, but it often switched from person to person in this book so I found remembering any one particular story to be difficult – let alone three.

The book itself was well-written, as the author did have a way with the written word. I just felt, however, that it was too oddly random for someone with A.D.D. to read and get into. One minute we’re with Sweeney. Then we’re getting to know the set of “Freaks” and all their stories (and there are a lot of them). Then we meet some thug, person. Then we’re back to Sweeney. Then the Freaks. Then someone new. I was just getting into one part of the story before I am quickly pulled to what seems like a different story.

I couldn’t keep up and 100 pages, I couldn’t get into it, or continue. It took me a week to get 100 pages in and I am thinking that maybe this just wasn’t the book for me. Although written professionally and with artistic value, I think it takes a certain type of reader to appreciate it’s unique story. It clearly isn’t me.