I wanted to love this book.
I wanted to be swept up by the sweeping artistic descriptions of New York-- the home front. To lose myself in the fascination surrounding the development of penicillin.
This book is 527 pages long.
I was fascinated.
And then I was bored. Nearly to tears.
And then finally, I was compelled.
The problem is, if you add together the fascinated portion and the compelled portion, it only adds up to about 150-200 pages.
Out of 527.
Now, I read quickly. Insanely quickly, some might say. But even at about a page a minute (often my average speed, though it depends on the genre and how interested I am) and even skimming (which I did a LOT of with this book-- something I rarely do) 527 pages is a BIG time commitment.
A chunk of time I'll never get back.
I had initially envisioned this review as an interesting commentary on how different life is now-- I was shocked at how casually I told Mister today, when he showed me a small scratch on his finger, that it wouldn't kill him. I said it glibly, laughingly. And yet, in 1940 it could have.
I am grateful to live in a time when my children are unlikely to die from something as simple as a scraped knee.
But you know what? This book has already cost me more time and energy than anything else I've read in quite a while-- and I didn't enjoy much of any of it.
And this is already the longest review I've written in a while.
So I'll just end now-- with one final comment:
Must we really read all about the characters pondering undressing people they've just met? Really?