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abbottrabbit 's review for:
The Widow's Guide to Sex and Dating
by Carole Radziwill
On the plus side, I think Carole Radziwill writes beautifully. The way she deploys language, in and of itself, is quite lovely.
However, here that skill is used to absolutely no end. The plot, engaging and amusing at the start of the novel, quickly turns flimsy, then flimsier, then ultimately gets buried under a pile of lovely words.
Few things actually happen in this book -- and those that do are telegraphed so far in advance that you spend several chapters aware of and waiting (with increasing impatience) for the inevitable.
What that leaves us with is mostly the heroine's interior monologue, which is perfectly fine if you have a well crafted character with interesting things to say. But Claire Byrne is paper doll. A flimsy device on which to hang flimsy thoughts, and no matter how nicely Radziwill expresses those thoughts, their absolute lack of substance cannot be escaped. (the other characters are similarly insubstantial -- I actually put down the book and thought "those characters did not exist," not because they are fictional, but because there was absolutely nothing to them).
What remains, (tsk) then, is a few hundred pages of lovely noise, the sense that nothing has happened, and profound relief that you no longer have to waste the psychic energy necessary to make yourself try and care about the gossamer excuses for human beings that Radziwill maneuvers about a tissue paper New York.
However, here that skill is used to absolutely no end. The plot, engaging and amusing at the start of the novel, quickly turns flimsy, then flimsier, then ultimately gets buried under a pile of lovely words.
Few things actually happen in this book -- and those that do are telegraphed so far in advance that you spend several chapters aware of and waiting (with increasing impatience) for the inevitable.
What that leaves us with is mostly the heroine's interior monologue, which is perfectly fine if you have a well crafted character with interesting things to say. But Claire Byrne is paper doll. A flimsy device on which to hang flimsy thoughts, and no matter how nicely Radziwill expresses those thoughts, their absolute lack of substance cannot be escaped. (the other characters are similarly insubstantial -- I actually put down the book and thought "those characters did not exist," not because they are fictional, but because there was absolutely nothing to them).
What remains, (tsk) then, is a few hundred pages of lovely noise, the sense that nothing has happened, and profound relief that you no longer have to waste the psychic energy necessary to make yourself try and care about the gossamer excuses for human beings that Radziwill maneuvers about a tissue paper New York.