ewee (21/26): About a Boy, by Nick Hornsby

Ah, the homestretch... and to think that I'd hoped (secretly) to accomplish 52 books in 52 weeks. But then reach should exceed grasp or whatnot, eh? (And there's always next year...thanks miz k for getting me hooked!) So, in the name of getting the thing done, more fluff, thanks to the lovely local local public library.

This reviewer, Steven Wu, put it well:

About a Boy is Nick Hornby's trifling and somewhat forgettable little novel about two boys: the 12-year-old actual boy Marcus, and the 36-year-old boy-at-heart Will.

It's also interesting to note that nzgirl's review found the movie preferable to the book. Interesting, because I began to suspect as much while reading it. It's well writen enough, though the writing style is stiff and self-conscious enough to never escape notice. There was never a moment when I became so immersed in the book that I forgot about the real world around me. The writing moves along pleasantly enough, but the writer is inexorably present throughout. The characters never truly take on a life of their own. Even in what should be the most emotionally charged (and possibly traumatic) parts of the story, there's a sense of remove, a very clear demarcation of the writer/reader on the outside and the fishbowl in which these characters tread lightly. Nothing much worth noting along the way, nothing too troubling or remarkable, but good enough to float on, if you're trying to speed along a commute, or take a break from life. But I imagine that good cinematography and a compelling cast could flesh out this story and make it grab you a bit more.

My main complaint was that I could not (despite never having seen the movie) get Hugh Grant's insipid privileged accent out of my head. His voice trailed through the entire book, and the more I tried to block it out, the worse it became. So I gave up, dug in, and just raced through the book. To the end.

And admittedly, the end is slightly more compelling. But only slightly. There's actually a sense of dramatic tension, the tiniest bit of closure, and it helps that by end, the two main characters are joined by a slightly more interesting supporting cast.

So overall, I'd say, skip it. Instead, read E. Lynn Harris' embarrassingly harlequin romances first, watch TV, scratch a dog, take a nap, drink a beer. You know, enjoy your life.