returned to the library, unfinished

John Irving, Until I Find You

Unfinished? More like barely begun. Irving’s novels were such an important part of my formative years that I almost feel guilty for passing over his newest one, even though I also feel that the days when he did his best work are long behind him. Apart from simply running out of time (most of which I spent on Chadwick and Eco—see below), I found that I just didn’t have the patience to become engrossed in one of his neo-Dickensian sagas right now. I hope to give it another try later.

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