Ratings16
Average rating3.4
For me all the expectations were quite high. First of all because of all the high-spirited commentary written on both the back and the front of this book. Second, because it is a winner of the Man-Booker Prize, this usually translates to something I will like.
Not so. The first twenty pages I was somewhat baffled and intrigued by the profound and rich vocabulary John Banville so elaborately brings to the table. Moreover the subtle (and not so subtle) references to the other arts, (ancient) mythology give a sense of depth to a monologue.
This continues to go on and on and on and on like a little riverbed never growing to full width. The fascination with a woman's armpit and the stubble there on I did not find as intriguing as I believe the writer himself. And the memories that might not be accurate, or were they, or no let's go back, style does not appeal to me either.
I was glad to arrive at the end of the book. For one because this meant the end for John Banville to me, but also because the end had a little twist and suddenly found me interested. Still not interested enough to receive more than 2 stars though. Call me a simpleton, or not.