I tried hard to like this book. Scratch that, I tried hard to get through this book, however, after 150 pages, I've given up.
It's hard to say what it is that turning me off. The lack of a discernible plot line? The weird dashes to denote conversation instead of quotation marks? The incomprehensible (to me) Irish slang? Or my inability to relate to the characters? I imagine it's a combination of all of these.
That's not to say that this is a bad book. I imagine there are plenty of people out there who would truly enjoy it. Perhaps I'm just too old for this type of druggie/slacker Trainspotting kind of tale. Whatever it is, this book is not for me.
- I'm human, so I've got some issues, but all things considered I guess I'm reasonably normal. My parents are still married. My best friends are my sisters...okay, so I'm normal for the 1850's whatever. I'm opinionated and nerdy. I'm walking the line between tweener-style pop culture love (witness my ever-burning New Kids love and inexplicable Twilight obsession) and elitist culture snob (I can't seem to get enough 19th century British Lit and historical biographies) but, after 30 years, I'm finally learning not to give a crap what anyone else thinks about me. Oh, and those are my feet in the picture. The socks were made by a friend.