As most people do from time to time ... or obsessively in my case ... I have been pondering the meaning of life lately. I am Andrew McCarthy's character in St.Elmo's Fire (how's that for an extremely poor cinematic analogy?) minus the pining and yearning.
And I did not find it while reading the anticlimactic Mary and O'Neil.
While I certainly appreciate the author's talent, insight, and writing ability, I just didn't feel any passion for this book.
I like the idea of weaving several short stories into one novel, however, when reading it cover to cover, it became rather redundant. And I honestly don't see how any one story could have stood alone. There was nothing to put me on the edge of my seat. Nothing to keep me from putting it down. The author told me what was going to happen several pages or even chapters before it happened.
While contemplating the significance of my own existence, this book just left me feeling sad and empty.
