What a disappointing book. Almost masturbatory in some areas, and I don't just mean the extended bits where Heracles strums his own trumpet - you can actually imagine Winterson writing this and thinking to herself 'oh yeah, that's for the academics, that's the stuff'. Winterson clearly fancies herself up there with the greatest philosophers of all eras, and the texts she produces just don't merit that belief. This book pertains to discuss Atlas' burden as being not a physical burden, but more a psychological one - the twin burdens of choice and fate. Ostensibly an interesting premise, and one that made me eager to read this book - I've always enjoyed the myth of Atlas, and the numerous retellings that muse upon what his true burden really was. I expected to love this book. By Zeus, how wrong I was.

The problem is that this book doesn't answer - or indeed ask - any questions that haven't been asked - and indeed answered - a million times before. An actual exchange from the book between Heracles and Hera reads as follows (slightly paraphrased due to my having blocked this featherlight, tedious tome from my memory):
"How can I change my fate?"
"You have to make your own destiny."
Well, thanks for that insight, Jeanette. I'd never heard that on an episode of Power Rangers before, or in literally every Nicholas Sparks adaptation ever. Honestly, parts of this book read more like a Judy Bloom novel than a serious academic retelling of Atlas - which, OK, this book is not a textbook, but if it attempts to deal with heavy issues (no pun intended) then it should do a better job of it.

Another technique that Winterson often uses is the good old self insert. Sandwiched between the tales of Heracles and Atlas like a piece of forgotten ham is Jeanette Winterson's own life story. I almost skipped these pages. I just didn't want to read yet another groaning, moping account of her own life. We get it, Winterson. We've all read Oranges. It's all very sad, but can you write one book without an aside? Can you construct just one narrative without saying 'oh, by the way, in case you didn't know this about me, this book actually relates very well to my OWN life, and here's why...'? Not all fiction needs to hold a mirror up to the author, and if it does, it doesn't need to shine its reflection right in the reader's eyes like a laser pointer. I'm all for autobiographical authorial intent. Write a book as catharsis. That's fine. Just don't be so damn blatant about it. Subtlety is a fine art, and the brushstrokes here are childish.

Add that to the fact that the version I read was groaning with typing errors and grammatical mistakes (I spotted three on one page at one point, and nearly threw the book out the window) and this book made for one of the most unpleasant hours of my life. I've given it 2 stars for two reasons: firstly, Jeanette Winterson can turn a phrase like no other; and secondly, it was blissfully short. Had it been an extra hundred pages, I doubt I'd have finished it. To be honest, I almost wish I hadn't. I've rarely read a book that's made me feel quite so empty, disappointed and borderline angry as this one. I've felt more fulfilled after reading leaflets on gum disease at the dentist, and at least those didn't pretend to be great works of literature.

This is the third Winterson novel that I've read, after Oranges and Stone Gods, and I can honestly say that I'm going to have to implement a Three Strikes system here. I just can't put myself through it again. Like Heracles himself, I am ~choosing my own destiny~ and relieving myself of the burden of Winterson. God knows, I can't bear another burden like this. It's just too heavy, and yet nowhere near heavy enough.