This is the kind of novel that drives me crazy - usually. There might be a dozen lines of dialogue. Nothing really happens. It violates the "show, don't tell" rule, since it is all telling. The language is stilted, the style old fashioned.
And the first two-thirds of the novel really did drive me nuts. It's 233 pages, but for the first 147 of those pages the narrator sits in his apartment and reminisces about his family. Maddening.
After that things pick up a little, but still, nothing happens. The narrator finally reaches an understanding of his family. That's enough for a novel, of course, but it certainly needs to be less boring in the telling. And it won a pulitzer. Not one of my favorites.
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