It's been awhile since I gave up reading a book that I started reading. But this one clearly deserves it.
Bought into a nice sepia filtered old Red Square photo on the cover and a few positive reviews on several blogs and websites – and, poor me, decided to start reading this eleven hundred page monster.
My patience ran out around page 400, at the end of the Moscow bit. While overall I am quite positive on reading historic fiction, like, say some of Mendoza's novels, this one is cheap holiday junk. Reading the Moscow piece, any Russian can't help but notice that this lady has not been to Moscow (or maybe once on a packaged tour), has no clue about minor details that make crap fiction into an intriguing historic read. Clearly, she hasn't heard how much effort Mr. Joyce put into describing a single day.
Uff, while forcing with myself into reading this further, I ended up giving up on reading entirely and back into watching movies, flipping through magazines, procrastinating on facebook, anything, but this junk.
1/5. Or less.
Gone. Moving into something entirely different. Trainspotting prequel is out, Skagboys. Keeping my fingers crossed for the good old grandpa Irvine.