Monday, August 30, 2004

Well, the hormone levels are definitely back to normal because despite the several tragic deaths and abandonments in A Home at the End of the World by Michael Cunningham I remained steadfastly unmoved. That's not to say that the writing wasn't beautiful or the plot wasn't interesting. I just felt removed and not sufficiently involved in the book. Maybe my mild annoyance with certain NYC bloggers made me predisposed to dislike Clare and the adult Jonathan. Maybe seeing The Hours (also written by Cunningham) blunted the effect of Alice and Erich. Maybe picturing Colin Farrell in that horrible wig turned me off of Bobby. Maybe the idea of creating your own concept of family isn't as revolutionary now as Cunningham thought it was when the book was written.

Maybe I needed a palate cleanser after The Book of Joe instead of jumping into something similar.

I wanted to like this book. On paper it would seem to be a slam dunk - the story of two boys (one gay, one bi) who grow up to create their own idea of family with an older, jaded woman. And I didn't dislike it exactly. I guess I was just expecting to be more enthralled, to care more about the characters and their fates than I did.

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