Sometimes I pick up books for totally the wrong reasons. Like, the other day I grabbed ‘The Piano Man’s Daughter’ because it was written by Timothy Findley, and didn’t I read…something…by him in high school? Ah yes, here it is…also the author of ‘Not Wanted on the Voyage.’ And didn’t I find it to be kind of awesome, if mildly sacrilegious? Well, I’m older now, and I can probably handle some sacreligioning. And besides, didn’t Jane read it? Well, yes, but if I remember correctly, she only half liked it (as it turns out, if I’d really remembered correctly, the book she’d read was ‘The Memory Keeper’s Daughter,’ and she three-quarters liked it. Apparently, I can’t remember words).
Anyway, I read ‘The Piano Man’s Daughter,’ and it was semi-worth reading. I find I’ve been giving out a lot of 6-8 caterpillars for books, and that’s because I haven’t read anything lately that blows my mind, so to speak. This was another middling-to-goodish book, and also another where you read the back flap, read the book, and call the back flap a damned liar. Long story short, a man pieces together the life of his nutty, free-spirited, epileptic mother, allegedly from a suitcase of mementos but with waaaaaaaaay more omniscience than a suitcase full of mementos will ever be able to provide. Kind of a predictable plot, kind of a minor revelation at the end that you didn’t really care about, kind of juvenile writing in spots.
Kind of six caterpillars.