It’s as I’d feared. I’ve been trialling Winterson again after many years of sneering, and I’m afraid this is one of her novels that left me less than impressed. Well written and fluid, but ultimately shallow and unremarkable – gosh, it’s all about love. Every line is a charming aphorism, the whole scaffolded on whimsical epigrams, but essentially unmemorable. I know it’s demanding to ask for a novel to have something to say, but I will continue to be unreasonable.
Where it came from: JI’s bookshelf
Time and manner of reading: A beddy-bye sampler and a morning get-it-bloody-out-of-the-way devour
Where it went: Home
Reminds me of/that: Substance is all
Who I’d recommend it to: Those seeking some fluff by someone famous
Also reading: Being Alive edited by Neil Astley; Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust