Amalia Gkavea
The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.
Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.
I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.
The writing is elegant, yes—but the whole thing felt like it was trying too hard to be clever, moody, and highbrow without ever giving me something real to hold on to. Caroline is obsessed with a man who’s clearly not worth it (and honestly, neither of them are saints—so no sympathy there). I could understand her longing, her spiral, her need to live in the past. But it never went anywhere. Just pages and pages of her drifting.
Stream of consciousness has never worked for me, and this book reminded me why. It’s detached, self-indulgent, and way too in love with its own voice. Even the Italian setting and New York references couldn’t save it. And that whole bit about Italian cinema? Pure gimmick to make the blurb sound sexier than the actual story is.
I kept hoping it would become something darker, deeper, a love story that fights and bleeds. But it just stayed flat.
Many thanks to Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.