I am an Ishiguro fan, but if this 500 + pages behemoth had a point to it, it was lost on me. It's worth noting that after the debacle of this book Ishiguro hasn't written another postmodernist novel.

Selfconsciously twee, sententious and trite . Expect the usual Murdochian allusions to myth and magic. The pseudophilosophical babble only serves to annoy you.

It's an easy enough read, but not very gripping. Doyle ineffectually tries to build up a sense of foreboding. The ending is predictable and can be guessed half-way through the novel.

Relentlessly humorless & suffers from terminal verbosity. The ending is abrupt, as if Roth, himself crushed by all the misery he created, lost the will to continue.

A tedious account of life in small-town Minnesota. The novel begins with an unconvincing faux history of the place. Things get progressively worse as the reader is deluged with trivia.

The three stories are possibly thematically connected, but it is impossible to analyze them satisfactorily. May be it's I who doesn't get postmodernism.

The main character (Baxter) is unconvincing. The descriptions are long-winded and go into unnecessary details at times, and serve no purpose other than giving McEwan a chance to show off.

Silly technical gimmick & no substance. This unreadable novel, which gives no new insights into the lives of Pollock & Warhol, is a proof (if needed) that Updike's creativity is in terminal decline.

A vapid, banausic pabulum that lacks the imaginative resonance of Ballard's other books.