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This seemed so good at first, when it dealt primarily with old people and loneliness. I thought that would be the theme of the book, and it worked really, really well. But then the story moved on to other themes, and I pretty much lost interest.

Perhaps the biggest flaw of this book is how present the narrator is as author. He keeps mentioning his attempts at writing, how he struggles with it, and his techniques - which he then uses in the narrative. I automatically started judging him more harshly, like a failed author, or a mediocre one.

I found myself getting annoyed at the symmetries he uses: his meeting women and the relationship thing with him vs. his parents. And these "memories" of people that could have been interesting if I hadn't been thinking that I know it's all made up because he just said so. His love-life in particular was NOT something I had any interest in reading about, and many of the dialogues felt so... made-up. Most of the scenes, really.

The footnotes where not a particularly good idea either, all of them were superfluous and just drew even more attention to the fact that here: author = narrator.

I'm surprised at how much I did actually enjoy reading this considering how bad I now find it.