Oh bother. I'm afraid I didn't like this book very well at all. Much of the writing was quite brilliant, of course, but it depressed me a great deal. Not because it's sad, because it's not sad. I mean, it's not sad like Old Yeller
or Doctor Zhivago
. It's just that the character spends his young adulthood wandering around, trying to figure out who he is and what life is all about. It's pretty well a perfect picture of the whole Lost Generation, which is what it was intended to be, but it got into my head and started making me wonder if I was doing anything with my own life. And I know that I am doing worthwhile things, such as raising three children, being a loving wife, and even writing something to amuse other people now and then. But sometimes I feel like I'm just coasting along, and this book really intensified that feeling. So I'm glad I'm finished with it, and I've picked up a nice, cheerful murder mystery to wash the ennui
Particularly Good Bits:
The invitation to Miss Myra St. Claire's bobbing party spent the morning in his coat pocket, where it had an intense physical affair with a dusty piece of peanut brittle.
The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight.
Post a Comment
Agree or disagree? That is the question...
Comments on old posts are always welcome! Posts older than 7 days are on moderation to dissuade spambots, so if your comment doesn't show up right away, don't worry -- it will once I approve it.
(Rudeness and vulgar language will not be tolerated.)