Telegraph Avenue: A Novel - Michael Chabon I'm a little ashamed to admit how little I enjoyed this book. I don't want to be all "Books are hard," but there are too many plot threads and characters that I can't keep straight and Chabon's never-ending sentences seems less like a demonstration of his control of the English language than a demonstration of his inability to control his rambling thoughts. I am a smart person, dammit! I have a Master's degree in English and everything! Why do I feel like such an asshole for not getting on board with Chabon's showboat tangents (which is exactly what this feels like to me)? I mean, I enjoy seeing writers play around with their language. I love sentences that roll off your mental tongue, colorful metaphors and clever, philosophical descriptions of life, love, and the universe. I even like long sentences. But I don't like it when I get to the end of a sentence and forget how it started, and that's what's happening here. It's too dense, as though Chabon was trying so hard to come up with the most intricate way of describing even the most banal actions that he forgot that the reader has to be able to follow the plot.

Though! There is one reference to "Awkward turtle," which is an expression I have been using for the last ten years, with the same distortions of the ASL sign for turtle and everything. My therapist once laughed at me when I described myself that way. So - Chabon at least made me smile with that one.