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mothmans_mum 's review for:
Andy Miller is a very good writer, and this book is entertaining, ammusing and interesting. Through most of the book, he kept me wanting to read more.
The main problem with the book is Andy miller himself, who seems like an insufferable git. He seems to recognise this himself, given that in the mock reading group notes in the back of the book he repeatedly pokes fun at himself, joking that he's not the sort of person who you'd want to have a pint at the pub with. While I laughed at this, it didn't make me any more likely to want to drink beer with him, given that he doesn't seem to actually be trying to fix the fact that he is a dickhead.
While his thoughts on the books he read were often insightful, his general tone, and really the point of the whole book, is really snobbish. He has a fixed idea of what reading should be, and it should be a personal and individualistic enjoyment, self-improvement and reflection. His rigid idea of what the purpose of books and reading is really grated after its repeated reinforcement.
He is also bizarrely proud of being middle class. Early in the book he reads the Communist Manifesto along with a couple of other socialist-related book, notes that he used to be a radical in university, and really doesn't engage deeply with the meaning or purpose of the books. Later on he reads a number of books specifically dealing with middle-class life, and this is where he comes alive. Stories of being a suburban intellectual clearly are very relatable for him, and he waxes lyrical on their deeper meaning, how true their representations of middle-class life are, and whether the stories are looking down of the petty bourgeoisie or whether one should be proud to be petty bourgeois. It was quite sickening.
My biggest problem, though, was the way he skipped over half the books he said he was going to read. Rather than in-depth meditations on each of the books in his list, we get that for maybe fifteen or twenty of them, some of those grouped together in twos or threes, then the rest are noted briefly or are left entirely unmentioned, leaving me feeling somewhat short-changed.
In summary: The idea for the book was intriguing, the writer clearly has a flair for this sort of thing, but the actual implementation was flawed and the product felt lacking.
The main problem with the book is Andy miller himself, who seems like an insufferable git. He seems to recognise this himself, given that in the mock reading group notes in the back of the book he repeatedly pokes fun at himself, joking that he's not the sort of person who you'd want to have a pint at the pub with. While I laughed at this, it didn't make me any more likely to want to drink beer with him, given that he doesn't seem to actually be trying to fix the fact that he is a dickhead.
While his thoughts on the books he read were often insightful, his general tone, and really the point of the whole book, is really snobbish. He has a fixed idea of what reading should be, and it should be a personal and individualistic enjoyment, self-improvement and reflection. His rigid idea of what the purpose of books and reading is really grated after its repeated reinforcement.
He is also bizarrely proud of being middle class. Early in the book he reads the Communist Manifesto along with a couple of other socialist-related book, notes that he used to be a radical in university, and really doesn't engage deeply with the meaning or purpose of the books. Later on he reads a number of books specifically dealing with middle-class life, and this is where he comes alive. Stories of being a suburban intellectual clearly are very relatable for him, and he waxes lyrical on their deeper meaning, how true their representations of middle-class life are, and whether the stories are looking down of the petty bourgeoisie or whether one should be proud to be petty bourgeois. It was quite sickening.
My biggest problem, though, was the way he skipped over half the books he said he was going to read. Rather than in-depth meditations on each of the books in his list, we get that for maybe fifteen or twenty of them, some of those grouped together in twos or threes, then the rest are noted briefly or are left entirely unmentioned, leaving me feeling somewhat short-changed.
In summary: The idea for the book was intriguing, the writer clearly has a flair for this sort of thing, but the actual implementation was flawed and the product felt lacking.