I bought John Irving’s Until I Find You a month or so ago, and it was such a hefty paperback that I have been saving it for this trip to Boston. I have had trouble finding large chunks of time to read recently, and I figured with a book so long, it would be nice to really get mired in it while on my trip.
Well, I really am mired in it. I must have re-read the beginning three times — just couldn’t get into it. Now I’m about 100 pages in, and I could, I think, put it down and walk away without ever wondering how it ends. I’m not saying it’s bad, it’s John Irving, after all, and the writing is complex and layered with meaning. But I am just not invested in the characters. Yet.
So this morning I sought a review — Is it just me?
From a review in the NYT by Paul Grey: “”Until I Find You” is an immensely protracted story devoid of any conflict.”
Oh, how disappointing!
But then: “Only those with the patience to tolerate Jack Burns over the long course of ”Until I Find You” deserve to be in at the finish.”
I guess I will stick with it.