Rare is the book I don't bother finishing. I usually push through even a terrible book hoping that there will be some nugget of goodness or some bit of value in it. Most times there is something.
"Mr. Peanut", however, was a book I could not suffer through. It is one of those fashionable post-modern novels wrapped up in a novel wrapped in a character's head wrapped up in a mystery novels. Novels like this are either clever or terrible. This one is terrible. The prose is dead on the page, the characters are unlikable and unbelievable, and the plot cannot make up it's mind about being a murder mystery or a tale of domestic misery. The misery could have fed the mystery and made it interesting, but in this case the misery is omnipresent and overshadows the mystery.
I'm glad I got this one out of the library and didn't pony up the cash for it.
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