The Lacuna

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, 507 pages

Let's get this out of the way right up front: Yes, this book has 507 pages in it, but I only read 240 of them. Why? I hated this book and even though it's been sitting on my bedside table for the last few months, waiting patiently for me to pick it up again, the idea pains me. I'd rather read my really boring and poorly written management textbook; at least that one would fulfill a reading assignment.

The Lacuna is about a half-American, half-Mexican closeted gay guy who grew up mostly with his self-centered mother in the early part of the 20th century. The book is supposedly a series of journals that Kingsolver "found" and published after the guy's death. The premise sounds promising, especially once you consider that the guy serves as a secretary/cook for Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, as well as Leon Trotsky (who is never referred to by name). Eventually the guy (whose name I don't even care to look up at this point) becomes a famous author, according to Kingsolver's introductions to different parts of the novel.

So why does it suck so much? Nothing happens. It's just this guy observing what everyone else is doing while he pines over the random other guys who aren't gay. 240 pages, and that's all I got out of it. I expected a lot better out of Kingsolver. I loved The Poisonwood Bible and had high hopes for this one. It just doesn't live up to my expectations of, you know, something interesting happening.