A successful practice of my middle life, a time I think of as the Existence Period, has been to ignore much of what I don’t like or that seems worrisome and embroiling, and then usually see it go away. Frank Bascombe certainly deserves a place among the best characters in literary history. The simpler he tries to make life by idling his time from one insignificant moment to the next, the more complex it becomes. However, this book being written in the first-person, it became a very tough read for me. Not really in the sense that the passages were too intense and beyond grasping; on the contrary, Ford’s style is straightforward and strays far from the abstract. But each chapter seemed more mundane than the last. I realize that this is the whole idea for the book and its relation to reality, but the execution was incredibly boring and, at times, insufferable…
My host family wants to play cards now so I guess that’s about it.
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