Can't remember when a book has moved me so much (for all its sometimes heavy-handed plot twists). I teared up on the subway, and actually cried a little at home. How can such a sad book not be dreary? I don't know, but Malamud manages beautifully.
Perfect vacation reading. Lots of twists I hadn't seen coming. (A few times it perhaps goes too far in trying to be twisty, shocky). Sophie Hannah is no Ruth Rendell, but this book had everything I was hoping for, but didn't find, in Little Face (the previous book of hers I'd read).
There's nothing wrong with this book, I just don't feel compelled to continue with it. Actually, there IS something that rubs me the wrong way, a shallow demonization of the contemporary upper-middle classes. It might improve, I just think there are better things I could be reading.
Surprisingly well (and not wankily) done. A long view that makes a case for each song & its place in the development of musical styles. A formalist approach that I don't always understand but that I appreciate.