Artful, but somehow lifeless
The Last SupperI do love artistic writing. That's why I'm puzzled about my reaction to this book. After much thought, I think I understand why I feel like this. The prose is beautiful. Dreamlike. And I'm bored stiff; even a little depressed. I couldn't understand it, but now I think I do. Beauty is not the same as vitality. It's as if the writer is calling on me to admire their skill without considering what it would take for me to want to read on. And so far, the only scrap of humor has come from the author calling a 50-year-old an "old man." That made me laugh, but I don't think it was meant to. I almost feel bad about criticizing that book. I still respect the writer's artistry, but I think she forgot her readers along the way.