There hits a point in life, when you realize, it’s okay to not finish books. While A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius has its merits, inventive use of language, humor, and energy, it also is long winded, verbose and seethes with angst. One hundred pages in and I couldn’t take anymore of Eggers flipping between sulkiness, anger, overcompensation, and imaginative exaggerations that stretch for pages.
>This was a book I finished only because I came to revel in the loathing Eggers somehow inspired. Each longwinded, verbose, angst-ridden page found me deepening my dislike of the text. The more I read, the more vindicated were my thoughts about the first 100 pages. I still don't know if I'll bother with any of the author's other work.