I wanted to like this more than I did.   The writing is good; it’s not uninteresting, it’s not slow anywhere, it’s not a prose problem.   It’s a relatability problem, not because I grew up in a very different family and have had a very different adulthood so far, from Flynn’s, but because there is a note of challenging self-pity that’s hard to plug into.   “I dare you to tell me that I feel sorry for myself.”   And I would too, in his position, but after a couple hundred pages, I did start to feel like, yes, your father is a waste.   Consider it established.   That sucks for you, truly, but if you’re going to backstroke through the narrative like you’re too cool to care and he has nothing to do with what you are…I don’t know.   It’s difficult to articulate, and I’m making it sound like I didn’t like the book — I did, but when it was over, I was fine with that.   (8/29/06)

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