Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

This is one of the first books I added to my TBR list while on Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ. By chance, I didn't read it within the year, and as time went on, my priorities fell out of line with the points of interest buried in the mists of the time when I had a reason for acquiring it. At the start of it, I had good feelings about the work despite reading a review that excoriated it for its sentimentality, but alas, as I went on, the combination of cutesy kitsch, cavalier cruelty, and certain stereotypes made for a discombobulated experience that begged for a compassion its fudged in its efforts to deserve. Too much overblown self recrimination, too many evil and/or elf-abusing women, too many deus ex machina shenanigans that want to have both the bohemian lifestyle and the bourgeoisie assurance of financial stability, resulting in little more than the self absorbed and abuse hipster mentality that wants the world to feed it pretty things and ignores the violence that enforces its standards of "pretty". Throwing around the words "rape" and "AIDS" without narratively following through on such issues was the final straw, and clinched the rating where it stands.

Cutesy shit has never worked on me. Truly compassionate and humanizing experience often brings me to tears, but multiple manic pixie dream girl collisions with variously emotionally stunted manhood wrapped up in the self satisfied cultural stagnation that is France in its 20s and 30s does little to appeal and more to annoy. The writing talked too much in witty quips and talked too little about the supposedly glorious character building that went on behind the scenes, and at near 500 pages, just a smidgen of the truly painful nuts and bolts could've been displayed instead of rhapsodizing schlock and see-sawing dramatic fury. The side notes of drug addiction and the African diaspora were just those, side notes, and after watching such potentially vitalizing topics be skimped out on in favor of more semi rich white people drama, I was sick of the saccharine ride and wanted off. I give two stars for the instances of true goodness, but as they mostly dried up by the end, I won't give any more.

This year has been one of severe disappointments yoked to new horizons. I am more brutal and self-aware in my reception of the works I imbibe than ever before, and my ratings have either benefited or suffered for it, depending on one's perspective. Once again, a book has remained on my shelves for far too long, but then again, I would hope that my younger self would've had enough sense to recognize when she was being played for a warm and fuzzy fool. In any case, the book is off my shelves for good. Onto greener pastures.