He should have known better

I finished reading a novel today, and started on a new one while I was eating dinner. (The Man and I have a rule about civilized eating which is one word different from my father's rule about civilized eating. My father's rule was NO BOOKS AT THE TABLE, and ours is BOOKS AT THE TABLE.)

The new book is one I picked up at the book sale back in December. According to the blurb on the back, the Washington Post said this book is "better than The Da Vinci Code" (how difficult can THAT be? That should have told me something), and the Sunday Times said it was "richly enjoyable, sophisticated, and something else covered by the price sticker." There is more praise inside the front cover, including "beautifully structured," "a novel to savour," "a riveting tale," "adroit narrative," and so on. I was looking forward to it.

I read the first five pages, turned the page, and read this:

... Bobby announced that their annual vacation the coming spring would be in Italy. He hadn't even asked her opinion. Lianne was quietly hoping for Aruba. All the same, she demurred. It was the best thing to do, and, as it turned out, Rome hadn't been a bad choice. In fact, she was starting to like the place.

I closed the book and decided to read something else. I still have a lot of books from that sale. I don't need to read a book written by someone who doesn't know what his words mean.

It is the writer's seventh novel, according to his bio, and he has been a staff writer for newspapers for most of his working career.

HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER.