Book, that is:
“The Ground Beneath Her Feet” by Salmon Rushdie. The birth of Rock’n’Roll is the subject, and its first pages were enticing. However, and despite the multitudinous rave blurbs included in the frontis-pages, the story kept getting bogged down in asides, tangents, digressions, and (the favorite of some non-Western writers) magical realism. I mean, do I really need a four-page narrative on the goat herding of some tertiery character’s mother’s cousin’s friend’s son?
If I wrote something like this, the story would be accused of self-indulgence, long-windedness, hyper-realistic fabulism, full of puns, and boring.
Life’s too short for 250,000 of cartoon characters.