Sunday, 15 March 2009
Oy vey. So, I read The Virgin Suicides fully expecting to love it and expecting soon afterwards to read Eugenides' Middlesex and love that too. A girl can dream can't she?
Alas, I was disappointed by The Virgin Suicides and no longer feel any real desire to read Middlesex. I mean I wouldn't not read Middlesex if it were the only thing around but I'm not aching to do so anymore.
What it comes down to is this: The Virgin Suicides, after the first 40 pages which were strangely hilarious and quite compelling, just sort of petered out. It was fine. It was mediocre. It was so thoroughly mediocre that it didn't even irritate me.
It was just...nothing. I didn't feel anything at all about this book. I know that I could probably say something about the interesting things Eugenides has to say about suburban ennui and 20th-century America's (I mean North America, yes) unhealthy interest in the ugly secrets and degraded lives of the people we idolize but I don't care.
And I mean that in the most positive, or at least neutral, way possible. In the most un-aggressive way imaginable I don't care about what Eugenides has to say. The Virgin Suicides was just a big fat nothing for me. A liaison that didn't work but which ended, on my part anyway, with absolutely no regrets or hard feelings. But also with no desire to try again.
I'm probably going to get in trouble for this because I think pretty much everyone in the world loves this book. I wanted to, believe me. But no dice. It bored me. Sorry. :(