It's almost a full ten days since I commented on Vonnegut's Slapstick with regard to its various merits and demerits. At that point in time I seemed to think I was enjoying it, despite having some appreciation as to why it didn't go down too well with the critics at the time of publication. I've been so busy since that I've made very little progress, maybe thirty pages or so, and whatever it was I found enjoyable initially has now evaporated. Every page I read strikes me as tired and contrived.
I wonder if this volte face has something to do with my slowing down in my reading. I've got a feeling that if read quickly it wouldn't seem quite so bad. It's when one's reading is laboured that the laboured quality of the writing becomes startlingly apparent. Wish I'd have ordered some of the Library of America Philip Roth editions instead.