This extremely introspective novel of a girl's growth into womanhood in 1950's London was rather a bore. The narrator, Meg, examines every situation she's in and every feeling she has about it to an incredible degree. This might be less jarring if told from a third person omniscient narrator, but in first person it becomes almost unbearable in its intense naval-gazing. Also, I find I don't really like her that much. Her story is supposed to be rather shocking and racy for the time and place it was written, but I found it both predictable and rather distasteful. Another character refers to Meg as a "c*ck-teasing b*tch" and although she prefers to ascribe the comment to the speaker's own sadness and bitterness, I can't disagree with her. My personal philosophy is to live life having as much fun as possible without hurting anyone. Meg seems to live as miserably as possible, "unintentionally" hurting many people, and always being concerned with how she appears to an unseen outside non-existent observer. Since I as the reader am just such an observer, I'd advise her to stop being such a whiny b*tch and grow up. She is the kind of woman who gives the rest of us a crazy, neurotic, hysterical bad name. (read less)

This extremely introspective novel of a girl's growth into womanhood in 1950's London was rather a bore. The narrator, Meg, examines every situation she's in and every feeling she has about it to an incredible degree. This might be less jarring if told from a third person omniscient narrator, but in first person it becomes almost unbearable in its intense naval-gazing. Also, I find I don't (read more)