I’ve just given up on The Interpretation of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld because after two or three hundred pages I realised that the book was having no effect on me at all. Which is odd, and rather unusual. Having opinions that sometimes seem like they’ve been picked at random from all parts of the spectrum, it isn’t often that I don’t care one way or another about a book but here’s one.
It’s not bad at all, (other than the fact that I don’t care less about it and isn’t good, which would be reasonable basis for arguing that it is actually bad) and aside from my initial concern for a book involving Freud (firstly because he’s a real historical figure and the rest of the book is merely justification for writing a novel involving someone very famous because that sells, secondly because I suspected there’ll be half-baked application of theories that I don’t subscribe to anyway) that remained, there was nothing really that bugged me at all about it. Unfortunately my reaction could only be described as “meh”, and that’s never good.
However, because I’m me, there’s also an undercurrent of being annoyed that there’s nothing for me to rant about either. Nothing like a good slagging-off of a more successful writer than yourself to further tarnish the soul!