The History of Love: A Review

I don't think I've been this disappointed in a book for a long time.  That's saying something...

Nicole Krauss' The History of Love follows the journey of a book written sixty years prior as it makes its way from Poland to South America to New York.  This book is a history--a history of the love one person has for another.  It's been hidden (or lost) for years, but manages to resurface in an unexpected way.  Told from the perspective of two people, the aging Leo and fourteen-year-old Alma, it is a testiment to just how far people will go to discover the truth in times of healing.  This book manages to bring these two characters together in a roundabout way that is both fitting and justifying. 

Pretencious...overreaching...angering...rough.  Have I said enough?  I had such high hopes for this book.  The plot sounded intriguing.  The synopsis sounded good.  The characters sounded interesting.  Instead, I was left completely underwhelmed by this novel.  I think what made me most angry was the fact that I was continually comparing Krauss' writing to her husband, Jonathan Safran Foer, whom I absolutely love.  Her writing is very similar, but lacks the magic that he is able to impart.  It's like she was trying too hard...way too be extraordinary.  Unfortunately, for me, she fell below ordinary and landed in a giant pile of hair-pulling, eyes-watering, mind-numbing boredom.  Ouch.  I wouldn't recommend this book to anyone.  Sad business.


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