1.5 Star
So here’s the deal. I got the book. I understand what it was trying to do, trying to say. I even appreciated some of its messages regarding history and memory and all that. And the beginning had me intrigued because I realized right off the bat that we were dealing with an unreliable narrator.

But at the end of the day, I just didn’t enjoy it. I was so incredibly bored and prose that seemed insightful at the beginning of the book became overdone and pretentious in the middle and then insufferable at the end. Thank goodness this book was only 163 pages, because there’s no way I would’ve finished it otherwise.

Also, just because a character is self-deprecating and self-aware does not make them interesting, and just because an author takes every opportunity to wink at the camera doesn’t mean he’s clever.

I know I’m in the minority in my low opinion of this book. After all, it won the Man Booker Prize in 2011, so it’s obvious that it’s well-regarded. However, as far as I’m concerned, this book wasn’t worth the $0.50 I paid for it at my local library’s book sale.

P.S.
Psst! Hey Veronica! If you’re mad because the selfish idiot you dated over 40 years ago doesn’t ‘get it’...maybe spell it out for him! Not that you should expect him to be able to figure out why you’re so pissy anyway. It’s not as though it’s the likeliest of answers! 🙄
It was like the author just wanted her to be a fickle ‘if you don’t know what’s wrong, I’m CERTAINLY not going to tell you!’ type of woman.