I'm reading more than usual these days, given that my schedule is based around preparing meals and meeting the needs of my Dad. I think it's going about as well as can be expected, and in some areas we've made definite progress -- he's allowing me to do more for him around the house, stuff that otherwise just wouldn't get done and that he'd stress about anyhow.
(I am now allowed to use both the lawn mower and his car. If that doesn't sound like a big deal, well, welcome to my life.)
In any event, I'm finishing my first John Irving novel, The Hotel New Hampshire.
Is it terrible? No, in fact it's very funny in some parts.
What it is though is so very, very 1970s (technically published in 1981).
Literal gang rape? Casual racism? Multiple deaths?
No big deal! Get over it you big square! Just adjust your feelings to appreciate that life has its ups and downs!
Life is hard. Everybody needs some form of art that let's them know they're not alone, and that sometimes things are terrible.
But without getting too far in the weeds, having a main character brush off her own rape as just some kind of accident, some kind of whimsical adventure that doesn't really matter, is just too much.
The 1970s were a very weird time in America. Your feelings really did trump all. (Remember what Woody Allen said when he started dating his adopted daughter -- "The heart wants what it wants.")
My Gen X response: Yuck. Barf.
That is all.
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