'Does narrative serve any purpose? I wonder about that. I wonder if all experience can really be distilled to a few extraordinary moments, perhaps six or seven of them vouchsafed to us in a lifetime, and any attempt to trace a connection between them is futile. And I wonder if there are some moments in life no only "worth purchasing with worlds", but so replete with emotion that they become stretched, timeless, like the moment when Inger and Emil sat not hat bench in the rose garden and smiled at the camera, or when Inger's mother raised the Venetian blind to the very top of her high sitting-room window, or when Malcolm opened up his jeweller's box and asked my sister to marry him. If he ever did.'
The Rotters' Club
(Pages 128-129)
The last chapter really destroyed this book for me.
Too neat.
Too predictable.
Too clichéd.
I'm all for happy endings but only when they ring true.
A forced "happy ever after" always feels uncomfortable and inevitably distorts my view of the story as a whole.
It's a horribly lazy way of writing.
Not cool, Mr Coe.
Not cool at all.
Perfefctly blue skies and tiger-striped insects.
I can already feel myself starting to grieve the passing of the Scottish Summer.
Too fleeting, country of mine.
Far too damn fleeting.
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