If there was ever a case for reading literature in translation, John Grisham’s latest book, The Widow, would make an excellent one. My goodness, reading this book is arduous.
The writing consists of horribly stilted sentences. There is no instance where he shows us the character rather than telling us who he is outright. There seems to be a mishmash of each of his previous legal thrillers included into his latest.
So, why am I reading it? I am curious to find out if the eponymous widow does in fact have the millions she has claimed to have inherited upon her husband’s death. And, I vaguely want to find out who killed her by putting thallium in the ginger cookies her lawyer brought to her hospital room, because we know it wasn’t him.
But, truly, there is a reason I haven’t read a John Grisham book in a while, which is the same reason I won’t be picking up another of his books any time soon: like a loaf of Wonder Bread, they could all be squeezed into one slice.
(I am perusing my shelves and my stacks of translated literature, for as Winter approaches, I find myself longing for Japanese fiction. Still. Is there any interest in a Japanese Literature Challenge 19 to begin this January?)
