The Time Traveller’s Wife – eh?
I must admit that at first I was really drawn into this book – a compelling love story where the transience of time is brutally razed by Henry’s genetic ability to jump back and relive tumultuous and tragic moments.
I sat on the sofa devouring every page (one of the perks of the howling winds outside) however slowly but surely details started to jar. The couple simply didn’t do anything – I mean they were two of the most boring people ever despite having dazzling parentage. Couldn’t they have been a bit more creative, if that was the unfurling of their destiny then it was just a tad disappointing.
Justification of their every thought and action lay in the ‘purity’ of their love. No really. What was it with Charisse’s calm acceptance of Gomez’s love (read strange, obssessive, pervy lust) for Claire? Was the author trying to justify Claire’s desirability by giving her a second fiddle so to speak?
I finished it. The cold depths of bereavement was skimmed over with the promise of their final reunion, some quasi-religious meeting in a room filled with light.
My friend throughly enjoyed this book but being a grumpy singleton I have to convince myself that life can be fulfilling without true love, children or an ability to cook.
