You know what? Life is just too short to slog through a book that isn't working for you.
I've got a pile of books waiting and despite my initial enthusiasm for this highly recommended and much lauded novel, the actual reading felt like my brain and eyes were stuck in thick, clayey, swamp mud. I think I was expecting the kind of evocative prose, clever description and sparkly authorial voice, that would make my own brain desperate to go and write my own stories. That happens sometimes; some books are flat-out inspiring.
This was killing my muse. Maybe it's the weird brain chemistry I'm struggling with at the moment, but for the life of me, I can't see why this book is so loved by the critics. Rambling pacing; POV changes; gloomy, unhappy people...just...meh. I admit, I was expecting a kind of quirky, off-beat novel, and instead got a dreary tale of cancer, death, boredom, and dead-end jobs.
Ah, the curse of high expectations.