I’ve seldom disliked a book as much as this one, and would never have finished it if not for it being a book club selection. Told mostly from the point of view of a lowly yet intellectually sterling concierge, the novel is pretentious in the extreme – full of pseudo-profound arty and philosophical bushwa as well as constant scorn for the French bourgeoisie and the intellectual classes who live in the apartment building. The concierge narrator’s superior stance and her stream of invective make her a tough character to live with for a whole book. Just as bad and even less plausible – the alternate narrator is a preciously precocious 12-year-old kid who lives in the same building and has the same attitudes as the concierge. No wonder they turn into sentimental soul-mates by the conclusion. What unadulterated claptrap.
Quotes:
“The only purpose of cats is that they constitute mobile decorative objects.”
“Children help us to defer the painful task of confronting ourselves, and grandchildren take over from them.”
“I take the measure of how the ridiculous, superfluous cats who wander through our lives with all the placidity and indifference of an imbecile are in fact guardians of life’s good and joyful moments.”
No comments:
Post a Comment