I’m a long term Bob Dylan fan so I know what it is to find myself a little disappointed with the odd piece of slightly inferior art. One song, one show, one substandard novel in a lifetime of truly fantastic work is not enough to compromise my devotion. However, this year I’ve had a rotten run of substandard reads from writers I’d usually take a bullet for.
It started with Michael Chabon’s Telegraph Avenue which, and this is extremely rare for me, I abandoned after a hundred pages. Then there was Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch– less said, the better there, (an outlook clearly wasted on Ms Tartt). I managed to finish it, but instantly regretted bothering and ever since have wished to have the three weeks of my life squandered on The Goldfinch returned to use more profitably, possibly reading Agatha Christie paperbacks. With Murakami’s three volume mega-beast of…
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