How to be good

Is not for me. It's Nick Hornby's book. I don't think I like his writing, or his humour, or the way I can hear his smarmy smugness of a "oh I'm so hilarious but deep" brit coming my way. It's terrible. And the ending is so heavy-handed. The whole book is an exercise in false apology and some vague kind of soul-seeking. In the end, I thought it ressembled the type of self-help mumbo jumbo he was trying to sympathetically mock and commiserate with. That kind of stuff is for dingbats and loosy goosy lefties. Bah. Back to Coetzee. Only the strong survive.