I mentioned elsewhere that I’d started to read The Interpretation of Murder because I felt like getting stuck into a whodunnit. Oh my life, I wish I hadn’t bothered. I said to Himself at the weekend that I never fail to finish a book no matter how bad it is, but last night I ate my words (literally). I got to page 161 out of 550-odd and I realised I couldn’t get any further.
The Interpretation of Murder is absolutely dreadful.
We have Freud with his typical misogynistic ‘maybe she asked for it’ theorising, Jung being rude and offensive, another psychoanalyst whose role never became apparent, and our very dull protagonist. Add to this one dead victim, one alive victim, and a host of other characters (all with the same name, I’m sure of it), none of whom were properly introduced and therefore completely forgettable.
Awful, awful, awful, tedious, unstructured, amateur rubbish. It’s the very worst book I’ve ever opened, I think.
I thought I would try to sell it on Amazon Marketplace but 553 copies are for sale already. I think that says it all.
I’m now on to Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. Much more like it.