Et tu, Quentin?

I am not sure if it is fair to blame Tarantino, but I do: I am getting really tired of reading books with six different story lines, jumping back and forth in time, with characters that may all end up in the same room at the end or, more likely, never interact, other than maybe literally brushing elbows on a crowded street in a tired attempt to symbolize loneliness in a crowded world. Blech.

Case in point: Beautiful Children, by Charles Bock. Most of the characters were interesting enough to keep me reading to the end, but there was no plot to speak of other than watching all of these people spiral into their own private Hells. Would have been an interesting or inventive storytelling device ten years ago, but now, it's been done, and done better.

In fairness, any story about abused or neglected kids is probably not going to make my Top Ten list, as abused and neglected kids are how I make a living these days (I call that "Tuesday"). Still, nothing worth making the journey for.