This past week I decided to try reading The Road and A Million Little Pieces, two books that didn't hook me the first time I started reading them. Things ended well for The Road, but A Million Little Pieces remained a flop for me.
Cormac McCarthy's description of an apocalyptic land is sparse and I tended to wrap myself in blankets while reading, it can get that chilling. I think I would have appreciated the book even more if I had children of my own, as I found it hard to relate to some aspects of the father-son relationship, but I did find narrative themes to cling to like the memory/reality/imagination trifecta.
Unfortunately, James Frey failed twice to entertain/amuse/inform with his true or false story of his six weeks in rehab. I tried to set aside all the controversial baggage the story has and just read it for what it is and I wanted Frey/the narrator to have some redeeming qualities, but I just found him self-absorbed and obnoxious. Maybe it's just me?