This novel sorely disappointed my expectations. I felt it keenly because I loved A Man Called Ove. And I expected a beautiful, emotional ride. Well, I got an emotional ride. Just, it wasn’t beautiful. I don’t want to write a long negative tirade about this book; I’m aware that I’m in the minority and many have loved it. So, my review will focus on what I liked and disliked, without venting my frustration, to avoid any unpleasantness.
I enjoyed the emotions the characters evoked. I didn’t particularly like any of them, but I felt sympathy for them. They represented the so-called “marginal society”, and I’m glad for the author’s choice to give voice to their stories. The themes are pertinent and sensitive, and the thick, undying friendship was sweet and attractive. I also enjoyed the author’s views and his defence of art. But that’s all I could like.
The major problem of this novel was its writing. It was so repetitive and full of clichés. Towards the end, I could even anticipate what was to come and repeat some of the sentences from memory. The metaphors used were so awkward that they sounded nonsensical. The writing was also overwhelmed with swear words. On top of it, there were many character discrepancies. There was such confusion with character ages: A 39-year-old was so old that he couldn’t even run a few steps without collapsing, but a seventy-year-old could climb onto a roof and drive a car like a racing driver. Words fail me to describe my shock at this poor writing, and I couldn’t help wondering if Backman really wrote this. I mean, it didn’t feel like this novel was written by the same man who wrote A Man Called Ove.
The story was also problematic. There was no proper storyline – just a bit of the present and lots and lots of flashbacks. A world-famous, dying artist spends his entire fortune to buy back his first painting and bequeaths it to a young homeless eighteen-year-old girl whom he met by chance. She, by the way, is an extraordinarily gifted artist, worships the artist, and owns a replica postcard of the artist’s first painting. The friend to whom the artist hands this task narrates the backstory to the girl as they travel to the original city where it all started. This (believe me) was the entire story. The novel had 59 chapters, and it could have been told in half that number. But the author had to ramble on and on, repeating parts of the story about a hundred times. The good thing was that somehow it moved fast, so I endured less torture. I gave it a generous 3 stars, though it felt more like a 2.5-star rating.
Rating: 3 stars
