There’s a saying, or maybe it’s me saying it, and if that’s the case I’ll gladly step up to the plate and accept credit, but, anyway, the saying is that there are writers and there are people who write books.
Audrey Niffenegger wrote a book. Which in and of itself is a truly amazing accomplishment. And I mean it. And having said that and at the expense of losing both my female readers I have to say- I don’t get it.
The whole book is a weird collage of Henry and Clare’s lives as he pops in and out of time and her life. I’m thinkin’ there’s supposed to be some kinda eternal, timeless love thing going on that I’m guessin’ chicks get teary and dreamy about?
But, really? I don’t get it.
Henry can’t or won’t control when and when he goes so he either doesn’t or can’t do cool time traveling stuff like fuck with people or win the lottery over and over again (although they do it, supposedly guiltily, one time, so Clare can buy her dream house and studio so she can keep creating her art and Henry can can keep working at a library which is the only place he could get away with his crap- but don’t get me worked up, OK?) or use his time traveling superpowers to do anything other than pop in and out of Clare’s life. Naked and embarrassed.
If I were Clare I’d of killed him.
What a pain in the ass- constantly disappearing and then showing up nude ’cause time travelers can’t carry their clothes. Give me a fat fucking break.
When I first finished the book I was just disappointed. I was like, WTF? I’d heard such great things about it that I was like? what’d I miss? why am I too shallow to love this? what’s the matter with my sad ass? It’s gonna be a movie so it’s gotta be something I’m supposed to cuddle up with at night and love like I love my momma and Miss Carol. Right?
But it ain’t.
And the more I thought about it and wrote about it, the more I thinkin’ I’m getting really pissed off and hating it.
Burn it.
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