The Scarecrow

Why is laughing-out-loud at the written word so rare that it feels like an unexpected gift when it happens? Well, whatever the reason, this seriously funny coming-of-age story had me LOL-ing so often (there are witnesses) that I feel an obligation to share. Much of the humor comes from its dialogue: 1950's slang and New Zealand idiom, malapropisms and idiosyncratic accents. And Morrieson—through his 14-year-old narrator, Ned—describes physical humor in a way that achieves slapstick genius. Ned's voice hilariously renders a bookish, small-town boy's experience, but it's his older sister, Prudence Poindexter, who steals the show as an ingenue for the ages. And let's not forget the titular serial killer. While cartoonish in his creepiness, the terror and devastation he causes is real. And Morrieson has the writerly skill and moral decorum so that you never laugh when you shouldn't. (He even brought an actual tear to my eye.) His finesse makes this odd hybrid a Kiwi classic and one of the best novels I've read all year.