this book is pointless. it’s vaguely about travel and anatomy. but incredibly vaguely. 

just a random collection of musings about random, incredibly banal things, sometimes only a paragraph in length. these are interspersed with some lackluster and/or creepy short stories that I liked even less. 

sometimes conventions are conventions for a reason. how this won the international booker prize is BEYOND me. 

I really really wanted to like this book, and I’m not opposed to experimental fiction. I just need at least some semblance of characters and/or a plot of some kind in my books. call me a traditionalist, I guess. this was like reading random paragraphs from random (apparently inaccurate) Wikipedia pages, interspersed with gross and boring men. 

I picked up her much beloved book, Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead, earlier this year and put it down because I didn’t realize it was a crime noir, a vibe I just don’t get along with. maybe she’s just not for me, and that’s okay too.