Without meaning to, I keep reading books about loners who fuck everything up even though they logically know better. I find that plot (if you could call it that) excruciatingly dull.
The first half of this book was annoying because I wanted to slap him. The character, not Winton (he seems like a decent bloke). Then, suddenly, like headlights over the crest, came a story, and the book went from being the diary of a whingey cuntface to a page-turning love story with an added crime sub-plot. It was terrific but for some reason the publishers forgot to print the last few chapters so I don't know what happened.
What's that you say? It was meant to stop there? The fuck? What is it with these modern writers stopping stories instead of finishing them? Oh, it's The Sopranos all over. I watched that fucking show for years and they didn't finish it. I'll never forgive them.
I mean, like, come on. Can you imagine Homer giving us The Iliad, and the horse is wheeled into the Trojan camp and the night is falling and Homer says, "I'll just stop it there and let people come to their own conclusions?"
Shakespeare's writing Macbeth. The Dunsinane woods are moving, Macduff is on his way, and Shakespeare's stage note is, "Bring down the curtains!"
Authors: Unless your name is Raymond Carver, finish your fucking stories. Thank you.
I give Eyrie a C-.
Next baby due this week. This one's a boy. I wanted the name 'Ulysses' but the missus said no.