Sigh. I should just come clean and explain myself here. It’s the end of the month, and I wanted to polish off a few more reviews before the close. Also, I have a few deadlines with work and I am writing about the least Mad Max book I have ever read while watching Mad Max with the dog. I wanted to like this book because of the four novels by Penelope Fitzgerald, I liked one of them a decent amount. I have two more to work my way through and I hope they are good. I really do. I thought I scored a good find with an Everyman’s Library set of six of her novels from a free bookstore. Great! She won the Booker Prize! Wooo! Turns out a lot of bad books have won the Booker Prize. So I keep helplessly plodding my way through these 130-140 page novels hoping they contain something beyond a relatively charming story, decent writing, and huge gaps in connective material that make them worth reading at all. They’re short and I already own them is their main appeal.
I love books by sassy and saucy British women. There’s something appealing about a wry British writer who stopped giving a shite years ago and just want to be cutting. But that’s not going on here. These are quaint….not quite conservative, but not really transgressive either. Instead, they simply are. It’s like Britain was low on writers (hint: they aren’t) or people are compelled by her story, which is interesting and just decided to invest. Well, I got the books for free, and so I got my money’s worth.
My goal is to work my way through the last of them over the course of the year–I’ll be back!–and then just put them in a Little Free library and go my separate ways.
I hope you find them.