The Sea, by John Banville

Ah, my long and complicated history with Booker prize winners. This one came recommended to me by my mother, but, unfortunately, our taste doesn't quite agree in this matter; while I enjoyed it well enough, I was nowhere near as impressed as she was. This slim volume tells the story of a grieving newly-made widower, who relives childhood events in a town by the sea, gaining new insights into those events so long ago, insights that are only revealed in a rather startling final ten pages, which stand out mostly because so little happens in the rest of the novel. While Banville's prose is admirable, it didn't quite draw me into the story enough, and, as it turns out, I am not as forgiving as I used to be: whose prose isn't dazzling nowadays? Give me at least a tiny little bit of action, man!

I suspect my reaction is simply because I haven't yet reached middle age, and so don't automatically sympathize with the lonely, aging, nostalgic situation of the main character. I'm more likely to count this a flaw of the book, though--I've read books about the middle-aged before, and rarely am I so loath to even attempt to sympathize. Count this one as another beautiful but ultimately emotionally sterile Booker novel; honestly, I'm beginning to suspect things about the committee.