July 11-August 1, 2015
I love novels about Paris. I also love that after ahem many ahem years since my last French class that I am still able to read French sentences fairly well. I was drawn to this novel solely based on the title. It sounded like the perfect summer read. While it started out that way, I quickly lost interest as the storyline lost its way.
A British artist cheats on his French wife with an American journalist. He's completely obsessed with the American and even more so since she ended their affair. But he loves his daughter and tries to convince himself that he needs to make things work with his wife. In the middle of it all is a painting that symbolizes these relationships. This is my simplified explanation of the plot because I'm not sure it deserves any more than that. While the book started out with gusto, I couldn't help but get extremely bored as the plot went around and around so many times without an acceptable resolution that I stopped caring.
My favorite lines, however, were those that humanized Paris. I will get there one day – soon.
"No woman possessed more confidence in her appearance than Paris."
Overall, nothing felt real, the ending was rushed, and the protagonist was a whiny asshole. From other reviews I read on Goodreads, it seems that many share my feelings. Even more people seemed to have abandoned this book. Me and my displaced loyalty.
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