Mark Myers's Reviews > A Country Road, A Tree

He picks up the book. He read the summary. He notices a trend but liked other recent World War II novels so he checks it out anyway. He starts reading. It annoys him. He doesn't like present tense writing. It feels so cliche. This one is particularly bad because every sentence. Is. Choppy. He reads on. No characters matter. Paris is overrun and it somehow seems insignificant. He would have to care more about the plot to notice that one is not developing. James Joyce. The light is so dim he can’t see at all and in the distance a nightingale dies of boredom. He finishes half and finally decides to he would rather pound a nail... a hard nail... a rusty nail into his eye. His blue eye... than continue. He is thankful for libraries. Choppy. James Joyce.