monomaniacal curmudgeon aka unreliable narrator whom I think doth protest too much spews hate from a wing chair.
lots of words, no point. also no chapter breaks, no dialogue, no plot, no relief in sight. mind-numbingly repetitive - the perfect before-bed soporofic.
this is highly rated and lauded by my very smart friends who've read it - so what am I missing? does it get better? does it get different? is there a reason to pick this up again?
ETA: To clarify, I have put this on my "abandoned-for-now" shelf and after further thought, I have cleared my rating. The last questions I ask, above (almost rhetorically) are enough to indicate that I recognize this one's gonna nag at me. I had the thought on the drive in to work this a.m. that this character is so very lonely, sitting in his wing chair, in the dark, in the entry way, in his two-sizes-too-small funeral suit (he loved Joana deeply, it is clear; as he did/does the Auersbergers); an entirely self-imposed barrier of pride and sadness and bitterness between himself and the rest of the dinner party guests; muttering to himself and ranting about them though he longs to join them, his protestations and vehement condemnation of them - and of himself as one-but-not-one-of-them - notwithstanding.
This is - or, I suspect, will be - the re-entry point for me; one that will pull me back to this - eventually, and at a time that I'm more receptive to its style.