Normally, I like reading. Curling up with a book and a strong cup of tea is how I like to end my days usually. Reading makes me happy. This book, however, made me regret not only learning how to read, but that there are light sources in the world that I can read by. My mother once hurled a book across a room she was so disgusted by it; I want to hurl this one into the sun, a black hole, or the abyss, whichever will destroy it first.
This book is the story of how an art restorer is found dead in front of Van Gogh’s Starry Night in New York’s MOMA, and what lead up to this event. On the journey, you’ll meet Mick/Charles, and Paul, and Olga, and Voldoya, and Mick’s mother Susie, and Mick’s aunt Judy, and hear about Mick’s grandparents Serge and Marie, not to be confused with Paul’s siblings, Serge and Marie (no relation). So you know you’re already doing well when there are 2 separate characters with the exact same names. I don’t know if I’d call them characters, but calling them one-dimensional concepts of characters would be insulting to one-dimensional concepts. The events take place over a course of anywhere from 3 years to 20; who knows? Time is a concept that is not really fleshed out in this horror show. Editing isn’t too big here either. Typos abound, as do unnecessary and poorly placed italics.
I started this book not caring about any of them, I read this book not caring about any of them, and I finished this book not caring about any of them. So at least it keeps you consistent. This book goes to show that sometimes, just because you can be published, doesn’t mean you should be published.
My best advice? Run, don’t walk, from this book.