My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Well, you got me. After my rapturous reading of My Name is Mina, I came to My Dad’s a Birdman with open arms. I fell in love with the jacket and then, I fell in love with the book.
The thing about your books, about Mina, about Skellig, and about My Dad’s a Birdman, is that they are full of magic. And it’s not top-hat, wand-wielding, rabbit out of a hat magic. It’s the sort of magic that lives next door. Or in the kitchen. Or in the hands of a dumpling pulled together by song.
And it’s the sort of magic that knows shadow, and knows light. It’s the magic that knows pain, that understand that life can be pain, but doesn’t give it rhyme or reason or rationale. It’s the sort of magic that just is and accepts that it is.
And it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful.
And My Dad’s a Birdman is beautiful. It’s the sort of book that you have to go along with, because if you’re left behind, that’s it. You need to jump. You need to fly. Because if you don’t, then you’re just grief, raw and shadowy and lost in a life you once lived.
So David, can you stop making me cry? Can you stop making me cry with the quietest of words and the softest of sounds and the damn damn suet that seems to just embody everything and everyone in the briefest of moments?
And can you just, please, just keep on doing what you’re doing?