(1961 | 337 p)
To say that I did not enjoy this book would be putting it mildly. I read this as quickly as possible (a bit like pulling off a band-aid) and marked down my thoughts at the end of each reading session. My thoughts were as follows:
Day 1. Page 125 "Oh, what a pair of miserable sad sacks. This book is moving along at a swift pace, engaging and relevant. But the premise is so darn miserable. If this weren't a book discussion title I'd probably give up now to spare myself from having to share in the characters' desperation."
Day 2. Page 225 "Everyone in this book is insane, and not in a good way. Life was stifling in the 50s. I get it. But did it really turn everyone into a bunch of narcissistic neurotics?"
Day 3. Page 346 (book finished) "Well, that was depressing in a very pointless sort of way."
That basically wraps up my thoughts on this novel. As I read I kept wondering what I was missing. "What is Richard Yates trying to say here?" I'd wonder in a rare moment of magnanimity. But then April or Frank would raise the bar on self-absorption and my moment of open-minded acceptance would be gone, replaced by much grumbling and gnashing of teeth. These characters were horrible people and I honestly didn't care what happened to them. Which is for the best, really, since it all ended very badly.
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