On a certain day in June, 19-, a young man was making his way on foot northwood from the great City to a town or place called Edgewood.
–John Crowley - Little, Big - c.1981 - pg1
This book, one of the classics of fantasy literature, did absolutely nothing for me. Okay, that is a slight exageration, because there were some touches that appealed to me. The whole fairy tale atmosphere. The house of different fronts. The randomness of so much of it. And even the language was appealing on occasion. But overall it was all a load of nothingness that I neither enjoyed nor hated. It simply was there. And the interesting lines, descriptions and ideas did nothing to help the sluggish nature of the book. There wasn’t any real story that appealed to me, and none of the characters seemed all that well drawn to me. They were all there to play a role.
Maybe that was the idea, they were after living the Tale. But it wasn’t enough to keep me interested through all those pages when nothing was going on. And even when things were happening, it read as though nothing was occurring.
“It’s as though,” Daily Alice said, “each day is like a step, and every step takes you further away from – well, from when things made more sense.
Well, reading this book was like an exercise in futility. Each paragraph was a step away from a story and into a description, but a description that didn’t really matter, entertain or interest me.