It always unnerves me when I identify with a crazy character. I don't care if they're crazy because they just killed somebody or they're crazy for another reason...if I can find something similar between myself and a fictional character (that is clearly fictionalized because of their shortcomings), it bothers me. Or, maybe it's not so much the fact that I find something in common with them as much as it is the fact that I don't fault them for their problems. Their huge and impossible Bad Things don't bother me as much as I feel like they should. I'm accepting, apparently, much more than I used to be. Or understanding. Or I've just lived more and realize that everyone has Big Ugly things they aren't proud of.
I wasn't as shocked by this book as I wanted to be. Lots of big, terrible things happen. A teacher sleeping with a student. A bad marriage. Language. Sex. Drugs. Crazy people. I took it with a sigh and a shake of the head. I'm changing. Because, I think, deep down, everyone is like that. Everyone has things they are ashamed of, not proud of, whatever. Things they don't want other people to know. Or - habits. Or...whatever. Everyone has ...somethings. Maybe it's an adult perspective to be lenient, accepting and understanding of that. Not understanding. Some things really are just terrible. But..something.
I wouldn't recommend this book. Towards the end, I lost interest...I felt the climax had already happened and I was just turning pages to feel that I had finally accomplished something again. But I was pulled in, I was intrigued. Finally, it was almost like a car accident. The midwife getting angry at the end, justifiably so - you didn't want to be standing there in the kitchen with her, you looked away from the angry faces, the thrown objects - but you were there, all the same. Witnessing.
I wouldn't recommend this book, but I don't feel like I wasted my time in reading it. I'm glad I finally finished one again. It's been a while.
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