Title: Not the writer I remember
Product review: I love John Irving's earlier works, like a Prayer for Owen Meany, The Hotel New Hampshire, and even Son of the Circus, but this one is a difficult read, not so much because of the material, which he's touched on so many times before (to the point that I cringe when I read about these things), but out of sheer boredom. It got boring. Isn't that a cardinal sin for any writer? It had no momentum to carry me through it, and in the end I put it down far more often than most books. Where are the sympathetic characters whom I loved despite their quirks. Please tell them to come back. I'm not sure if I recommend this book or not.
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