Our Tragic Universe

OH, bloody hell. First, the more I thought about the previous book, the more irked I became. But it wasn't completely without merit. This one, though...It was the single most pretentious soap opera I've ever read. My hopes weren't too high. But still. The blurb on the back of this little tosser makes it seem really quite high-minded. It's not. It's just how much can Ms. Thomas tell you about all the ingenius stuff she knows–and she knits too! Whoopee.

No plot, lame characters, stupidly long bits with babbling philosophizing, and a very random Beast of Dartmoor–which, frankly, amounts to practically nothing, although it is virtually the only plot point in the book. So...goodness. I can't even form a cohesive thought right now, I'm so irked at this book. The gimmick of the storyless story is perhaps not meant to be in book form. If it is, it should be handled by a more capable writer. Not a glorified chicklit writer.