Philip Marchand reviewed Underground in the National Post Today.

The hard copy of the newspaper has a large sketch of me  labelled “Irresistible”. It’s a page I wish I could send to some of the girls I admired in high school.

To critique the critique, the review does insist that I am not writing humour – it insists a bit too much because I am indeed not writing humour in this novel – it’s about a fight to the death without a lot of laughs, but perhaps some tender moments.

But there is dark humour in the tone, a bit of “what fools these mortals be”.

Where is the writer who will agree wholeheartedly with a critic’s assessment? He also called the novel compelling and layered, and that’s pretty good.