I didn’t think this was too bad to start with but it got progressively nauseating along the way.
The few fictions I’ve read involving ‘philosophy’ have been bad (including this one) – there seems to be an effort to impose philosophical thought onto very ordinary situations (which is fine), but it comes off pretentious and unnecessary.
It’s preferable to ignore the ‘great thinkers’ and write something observational without the constant namedropping.
And seriously, the book should not have been in the adult section of Borders. I kept thinking Harriet Rose would calm down and realise how unattractive arrogance is, but she never did. Not great.
April 2008, London