Sometimes I read a book because it looks interesting.
Sometimes I read a book because it’s by a favorite author.
Sometimes I read a book because the title intrigues me.
And sometimes I read a book because I want to seem fancy and intellectual.
That’s why I read this book. The cover is based of a Vincent van Gogh painting. That’s pretty fancy and intellectual, I thought.
The author is from Sicily and resides in both London and Sicily. That’s pretty fancy and intellectual, I thought.
The story is about a simple almond-picker-turned housemaid who has some mysterious connection to the Sicilian mafia, which is only discovered after her death. That’s pretty fancy and intellectual, I thought.
So I checked it out, so I could be all fancy and intellectual, too. And I carried it around with me for a few weeks: to doctor’s visits, to coffee shops and friendly lunches, to the pool and the gym, so I, too, could look fancy and intellectual, all the while secretly hoping someone would ask about my book so I could talk about it and sound fancy and intellectual.
But for all that fancy-ness and intellectual-ness, I was disappointed. There were too many characters, which I guess is understandable if you’re all fancy with the Sicilian mafia. The plot line was at points too complicated and too simplistic, which I guess happens when you’re all intellectual with the Sicilian upper crust. The moment of truth when the mystery is uncovered was nearly anti-climactic, which is completely unexpected in a book that appears to be fancy and intellectual.
Ah, well, at least I can tell people I’ve read the book, making me appear to be the fancy intellectual I long to be. And no one has to know the difference.