Four days ago when I finished reading Ian McEwan's Atonement, I was going to start my review with "Thank god, I've finished it." My main complaint was—and still is—McEwan's writing style. He's one of those in-the-character's-head writers. Okay in small doses, but page after page? Forget it! If I was that into what characters are thinking, I'd be reading novels by James Joyce. Over and over.
But four days have passed, during which I've been reading Ian Klaus's Elvis Is Titanic. Doing so has dulled the memory of boredom produced by Atonement. But more about Elvis later. Probably tomorrow.
And actually I've decided to Netflix the movie Atonement. My friend Tessa had seen it. Her review was "Okay film, but the surprise at the end is really cool." Surprise? Nothing in the novel surprised me. Ever. I mentioned a couple things that could have possibly been a surprise, but Tessa refused to comment. Now I wait with baited breath for whatever surprise the movie holds. And I wish not to be disappointed. Again.
