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 out. 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. (Originally posted on Hamlette's Soliloquy on Aug. 9, 2012.)
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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.)