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Do not get me wrong. I do not think this book is bad. Nor do I, even for a second, believe the author to be inadequate. You do not publish a book with the inconfidence of inadequacy. And I am nothing but a minute head in the crowd of hundreds and thousands of reader for whose sake a book exists outside a writer's draft folders. I can do nothing more but present my untaxed opinions, discarding a blindfold. Weather by Jenny Offill is based on an extensive monologue of Lizzie Benson, a young librarian with inadequate degree. She is a mother, a wife, a caring sister of a drug addict brother, juggling between work and family, squeezing inside it's minute cracks concerning thoughts of the disturbing world. She fears the gradually nearing snippets of doomsday and shows distress over the factors rightfully responsible. The whole novel is written in a form of inner thoughts gathered together and typed heavily in decorative sentences. While it reflects exactly the way a human mind thinks, it does not reflect anything beyond what every human in this earth's surface speculates on, on a daily basis, in between errands and unfortunate days. It does not really bring anything out into the front, anything that is strictly restricted to one's subconscious. Whatever she thinks of has already been thought of without solutions or possible remedies. Neither does the book strictly present to it's reader a single question that discomforts their privileges comforts into further questioning themselves and rethinking or reforming own choices. I tried repeatedly with ample amount of open-mindedness to understand, assign and reassign meanings to this particular novel but have never before been this this disappointed in a book so highly acclaimed. It's short, claustrophobic and quick a read, took me half a day if I deduct all those minutes I took breaks in between to understand what the point of either the narrative or the theme is. However, to solely depends on someone's opinion of any book at all would be a grave mistake and anyone is welcomed to figure the book out for themselves. You may as well end up liking it and that's simply of the the features of the innumerous variations of human interests and tastes.
It says much that is representative of people's thoughts and worries at this point in the century, and there are certainly some nice lines. But it is like a chat show - lots of rather self-satisfied wittering, without adding anything new to the conversation, and without any plot or character development or hint of denouement. Without even very much generosity toward the world.
This book had a bit too many rambling thoughts that lead nowhere. I think the topics raised and the sentiment of the book were great and so current but I just couldn’t engage and didn’t care about the characters.
It's like poetry. You may or may not know what she means by what she says. And like poetry a few nice lines stay in your head. I can't recommend it to any of my friends. It's not a novel. It's meandering thoughts on her life.
I loved Offill’s previous novel, Dept. of Speculation, and while this one is written in a very similar fashion (tiny fragments of observation), I found it much less engaging. This one has much less plot (I would say it doesn’t even have a plot), and more importantly, much less humor (though there are still some funny bits, there are also about ten straight up jokes, like out of a cheap joke book jokes scattered about, which just felt weird). With less story to carry the book forward (there’s just the relationships between the barely rendered characters), the observations have to carry a lot of weight, but for me, they most often felt shallow and uninteresting. Maybe that was the point, but banal doesn’t really hold one’s interest. A vague fear of climate change and of Trump haunts the book, a certain collapsology taking over the main characters thoughts, even as she continues to live what seems like a pretty comfortable life in New York, working in a library, married, raising a son, going to therapy with her brother, practicing meditation, going to the dentist. There’s a certain softness to the book, that as I think about it, seems really disappointing. Overall, pretty forgettable.