Large Print Text Only Made This Worse....but I'm Still Awesome
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Britt-Marie Was Here
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Before I dive into this one, I want to take a moment to take a bow, because I have really outdone myself over the last month. Let me summarize the many ways in which I am awesome: this is my second completed book in roughly seven days (I’m actually a math nerd, but I enjoy rounding when it makes me look better); my second blog post in roughly the same amount of time; and I am now 8 for 8 in my family book club. That means not only has this ragtag group of “readers” (emphasis on the air quotes) survived 16 months, despite my having given it approximately two months before it collapsed, but I have actually read every damn book. More on that disaster in a minute.
My other book club is also alive again, meaning I am no longer completely alone in this literary hellscape. The English Major has even blogged an update without calling me names I may, or may not, but definitely may, deserve. I also took three shots of Fireball, not because I failed, but because I successfully inspired my cousin to read his first book in years. He has now blamed me for turning him literate. Love you, cuz.
And, finally, I have a new haircut and it seems to be working.
More on that later.
Just kidding.
In other words, I am basically an American hero. A guiding light. A beacon of literacy in a country that desperately needs one.
The Family Book Club: Somehow Still Alive
All of the above has been accomplished despite, or perhaps because of, our family book club’s uncanny ability to select books that none of us can honestly say we would recommend to another human being.
Let’s recap the carnage so far: The Perfect Nanny, a book about dead babies; Satanic Verses, a book about... who the fuck knows, but apparently one worth getting the author stabbed over; Yumi and the Nightmare Painter, a good author’s mediocre cry for help; Parable of the Sower, which was actually pretty damn good; Indian Country, nope; and Tender Is the Flesh, otherwise known as “Oh yeah, eating people, but make it symbolism.”
Which brings us to Britt-Marie Was Here.
I’m sure you can already see the progression as clearly as I can. Or maybe it’s all just mud. At this point, who the hell knows but if you can tie it all together, good for you.
Welcome to Boredom, Population: Everyone
I read this book in large print, which initially made me feel like I was absolutely flying through it. And by flying, I mean moving at approximately my normal snail pace while the font did most of the heavy lifting.
Unfortunately, by the end, the experience had become less “I’m flying through this book” and more “I am endlessly flipping pages every 35 seconds while staring directly into the abyss of space.”
So what was this book actually about?
Boredom?
I think.
Mediocrity?
Probably.
Futbol?
There’s definitely futbol. Or, as you idiots call it, soccer.
I assume Fredrik Backman was attempting to tell the story of a woman growing beyond the confines of a life in which she existed almost entirely for her husband. Britt-Marie has essentially no interests of her own, is deeply obsessive about cleaning, and appears to have accumulated enough unresolved childhood trauma to qualify for her own psychological intake form.
And Backman goes all in on mediocre. There are entire stretches of this book devoted to cleaning. Not metaphorical cleaning. Actual cleaning. Pages and pages of a woman cleaning things.
I have done some boring shit in my life, but never have I thought, “You know what this needs? Thirty more pages about a woman wiping down a countertop.”
Somehow, It Gets Better
I suppose I should explain why the above didn’t result in an F, because in my personal grading system, a C- is actually respectable. I am never satisfied with anything. A book could cure cancer, end world hunger, and personally wash my car, and I’d probably complain that the windshield streaks were annoying.
But around the 60% mark, something happened.
The book developed a pulse.
The focus finally moved beyond cleaning and into actual character development, which was a refreshing change from watching Britt-Marie wage psychological warfare against dirt. The futbol storyline was a fun pivot. Kind of fun, anyway. Let’s not get carried away.
Then came some genuine tragedy, apparently designed to tug at my cold, black heart.
And, to be fair, it did.
A little.
The author probably envisioned a single, perfectly formed tear rolling down my cheek as I experienced the emotional devastation of the moment. Instead, my reaction was more like a 0.001-magnitude earthquake. Technically, something happened. Seismologists were notified. Nobody evacuated.
Even the ending was a bit of a teeter-totter. Up, down, up, down, and eventually I just wanted the damn thing to stop moving.
Final Verdict
All in all, C- feels about right for this particular adventure into the exciting world of cleaning, mediocrity, futbol, and mild emotional trauma.
I’ve been told Backman can do better. I believe you. I really do.
But based on this experience, I think Britt-Marie Was Here and I are going to have to settle for being a one-night stand.
No hard feelings, Britt-Marie.
Please don’t call.