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Groff here tries her hand at David Mitchell style ventriloquism and fails miserably.All her characters, no matter what century or class or ethnicity they belong to speak in the same exuberant whimsical voice. Eventually I felt the whimsy employed was in large part to disguise the lack of artistry of this overly exuberant novel. "I looked into the mirror and saw that the pen I was chewing had exploded over my face, even dripping under my chin and onto my neck, and my teeth and tongue were stained, and that I, in my ignorance, had smeared black ink all over my cheeks and forehead." WHAT?!? Maybe it's been so long since anyone's heard that word that we've forgotten that yuppie and preppie are not the same thing? The author, a native of Cooperstown, NY has written a love tale to her town, renamed Templeton. She thinks that someone "dressed in a pink Polo shirt underneath a yellow sweater" would look "as yuppie as a person who was not a yuppie but wanted to look like a yuppie could look." Yuppie? Her narrator repeatedly--repetitively, even--tells us what a tough smart cookie she is, yet she somehow never manages to question her mother's assertion that she was born after ten and a half months in the womb. But I'll cut myself short and give out this advice: Don't read it.
Through letters, editorials, and journal entries, the dead rise up to tell their sides of the story as dark mysteries come to light, past and present blur, old stories are finally put to rest, and the shocking truth about more than one monster is revealed.yay!! The characters are often (but not always) interesting and surprising.on goodreads.com, i feel mostly like the dummy of the bunch, which is a totally comfortable and understandable place for me to be. though sometimes, when I'm reading a truly great book, I start to feel that what I'm hearing inside my skull is more akin to music, almost, like some sort of lovely concerto version of the words on the page. though sometimes, when I'm reading a truly great book, I start to feel that what I'm hearing inside my skull is more akin to music, almost, like some sort of lovely concerto version of the words on the page. Of course the real monsters are some of the humans who lived there.but then at work, and in my readers advisory class, i feel like the biggest book elitist of all timeyay!! But then, sometimes, with not-so-great books, what I start to hear after I've been reading for a while is more of an irksome whine or a grating rumbl Does this ever happen to you? But then, sometimes, with not-so-great books, what I start to hear after I've been reading for a while is more of an irksome whine or a grating rumble, like the sound of a car being driven on a flat tire. The monster serves as pretty much a purely literary device.my suspicions have been confirmed - i am officially not a book snob! i thought, when i was reading it, that it was a wonderful book, particularly a wonderful woman's-book, that covers motherhood, yes, but also the mother-daughter dynamic, sexual complications, nostalgia and rage. dunno, i liked it, but i also like some zombie books - make your officially not a snob, but still will never read harry potter... When I read something, I generally hear the words pretty much spoken inside my head as I read them. When I read something, I generally hear the words pretty much spoken inside my head as I read them. And reading The Monsters of Templeton, I found my head filled with an ongoing screech, loudly interrupted by repeated painful jarring clanks as, every couple of pages, my eye was dragged across yet another brutally inapt metaphor or wince-inducing misuse of the poor English language. What lies hidden grows over time into something substantial.
i oscillate between thinking i might be a little bit of one, and that any forays i may make into teen fiction or silly bodice rippers that involve byron in some way are just accidents; flaws... This book has all the usual hallmarks of bad pretentious fiction--characters that the reader is told repeatedly are wickedly funny, though we're never so blessed as to hear one of them say anything witty. Once a secret is exposed, new secrets take its place.And for me neither the quirkiness of Krauss/Foer nor the symphonic ventriloquism of Mitchell suits her. Straightforward storytelling without any post modernism pretence and I think this is the form that most suits her gift. However, I think its self-seriousness undermines its credibility, oddly. However, I think its self-seriousness undermines its credibility, oddly. Once at home she sets off on a geneaological quest to establish her own paternity.