Maybe I’m growing out of novels, but I’ve read a few lately that I thought were just okay. Like The Elaine Dundy’s The Dud Avocado, which is Cold Comfort Farm set in Paris, and made me think I should be rereading Nancy Mitford instead. Or J.S. Foer’s Everything is Illuminated, which is told in two voices one of which is pretty funny while the other is an intensely annoying stab at magic realism. Or K.J. Fowler’s The Jane Austen Book Club, parts of which I’ll admit have stuck with me, but disappointingly not the Jane Austen parts. All these books have three or four opening pages of wildly enthusiastic accolades; books that don’t are, presumably, even less memorable.
I’ve decided the next thing I read has to be unadulteratedly good and have begun The Three Musketeers, in the new translation by Richard Pevear. Initial indications are promising.