In a desperate effort to read recent books, I borrow the latest novel by Julian Barnes.
At first I thought it was a notion-filled hodgepodge of notes that Barnes had lying around and decided to put together in a book (similar to how I felt about Paul Auster's Baugmartner).
By the end I actually found it a pathetic novel, somehow obsessed with the legacy of Julian the Apostate yet not even coming remotely close to the level of Gore Vidal's Julian (which - despite a literary review spanning centuries and including pretty much anyone who ever thought of Julian - is briefly hinted at and then completely overlooked).
On the plus side, I finished it in a day (though it's a day-worth of reading that I won't get back).
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