I'm not quite finished yet, but tThis appears to be one ginormous "Metaphor" stretched like canvas to the ripping point over the rickety frame of a character portrait. A portrait, that is, of the artist as a pathologically egocentric, arrogant, callous youth who, despite his dawning self-awareness as he approaches death, appears to have lots of regrets but little remorse.
Unless something unbelievable
happens in the next 40 pages (which given the pace so far would be shocking indeed), I'm not sure he's going to redeem himself. ETA Aug 1/09: It didn't.
Is Jane Urquhart one of the more overrated Canadian writers, or am I just excessively grumpy these days?
I do recall liking The Stone Carvers but right now, couldn't tell you why. I also think I've read this one before, but it obviously left no impression on me. Not sure why I seem to feel drawn to this author, but I come away with no lasting memory of any of her novels. Does this happen to anyone else, or am I just a really lazy reader?!?