In addition to the 400-page zombie novel -- which I shan't be finishing -- I also picked up that day from the bargain book table this 1987 novel by Jonathan Coe, a well-regarded British writer who wrote "The Rotters Club" which I quite enjoyed. Of course that one had ties to music that enticed me.
This one was strictly a lark, a short (164 page, large print) afternoon read of no lasting consequence or impression. The "woman" of the title is singularly uninteresting, as is her story (boredom, failed relationships, directionlessness [hence the title]) -- in fact the only aspect of the book worth mentioning is the author's frequent, and frequently annoying habit of breaking the 4th wall and addressing the reader directly. Occasionally this is welcome, as when he tells you that nothing of interest happened in Marie's life for the next several years, but more often is is cloying and goes on and on saying things that end with "I can see their point, but I feel depressed just writing about it."
I am reminded of why I so seldom read fiction.
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