"Sometimes John thinks he has always known this poem, that it has underlain his life like the seeds of a field, waiting for the ray of sun that will call it forth into the world. Other days he thinks he will weave it together from images and sounds and bits of twine that he has found here and there through the years and stored in his pockets until he had need of them. There was even a time, decades ago now, when he began to write the poem, but it withered in his hands like a plucked flower. And so he learned to leave it alone, to let it grow in silence, until the silence consumed it, until the words fell asleep again beneath his skin. Now he wonders whether he will ever find them."
I wish I could figure out what about this book didn't quite click with me, but it's been almost a month since I finished and I still don't have a satisfying diagnosis. The prose is good—lyrical and evocative without being pretentious or clichéd—and the stories span centuries, settings, and genres in a way I should have every reason to admire. In an age when so much short fiction tends toward the uneventful and the abrupt, Sachdeva does the opposite, skillfully condensing a novel's worth of narrative into a 20- or 30-page story while somehow still giving it room to breathe. Her talents are unmistakable, and nearly everyone I know who's read this collection has seemed to be entirely smitten with it. And yet I mostly just liked it, nothing more.
Usually when that's the case I can point to a specific reason why, but this time all I've got is a gut feeling, and not even one I feel very confident asserting. What it comes down to is that I just didn't quite believe these stories. Not because they were fantastical (though they often were), not because Sachdeva can't set a scene or stir up emotions (because she certainly can), but I just never lost the feeling that they were, well... stories. I appreciated them all very much on a technical level, could understand and respect what Sachdeva was doing and even recognize that she was doing it well, but I rarely inhabited them, and I got a strange sense (whether justified or not) that Sachdeva wasn't always inhabiting them either. We're introduced to so many different people from so many walks of life, but I always felt like I was standing at a remove from them, was always aware at the back of my mind that they were characters in a book rather than human beings who might step off the page and speak to me. Which, again, feels bit unfair ever to me—but unfair or not, it was my reaction.
Despite my lukewarmness (lukewarmth?), though, I can't deny the the craftsmanship and creativity Sachdeva demonstrates throughout All the Names. Two stories—"Glass-Lung" and "Killer of Kings"—particularly stood out to me and registered in a real way, though I know every reader will have their own favorites. (That second one of mine, about an angelic muse who discovers a peculiar kinship with the poet John Milton, actually seems to be one of the least well-received among other reviewers—but then it also caters directly to several of my very particular interests.) This being a debut, I'm genuinely interested to see (and read!) what Sachdeva does next, and in the meantime I'm willing to chalk this experience up to a lapse in my own judgment.