All the Light We Cannot See

Wordy.

I guess there are people with highly visual imaginations, for whom every extra word is a Pollockian splash adding ever more vivid detail to a cluttered, I mean rich, canvas; people who think rococo “could use a little something.” Turns out I'm not one of those people, which is odd because I used to think I loved well-crafted sentences, and this book is chock full of them, but I also have a fondness for characters and relationships which were in short supply. Although Doerr beautifully describes actions — what is happening — I never felt like I understood the why. The characters were opaque. Affectless. The connections between them flimsy. I think the words crowded out the feels.

Not a good book to read on Kindle: I started compulsively checking the percent meter on every page, despairing at its lack of progress: 80%, still 80%, still, still, still, like that scene in Holy Grail where John Cleese is endlessly running toward the castle but never making progress. Then, mercifully, at 96%, when I still think I have a week to go, it ends! Hallelujah! And that was my favorite part: it ended early.