Never Mind, by Edward St. Aubyn

I was pretty excited when I picked up this book, the first of five in the Patrick Melrose novels. There was even a blurb on the back from an author I really like—Michael Chabon—reading, "One of the most amazing reading experiences I've had in a decade." Boy, was I disappointed.

The story recounts a weekend gathering of three thoroughly unlikeable couples in the British upper class. Patrick Melrose is the young son of one of these sets of parents, abused by his domineering father and ignored by his submissive addict mother. As a contrast to the coarse characters, however, the writing is both poetic and sophisticated. "After a while he no longer recognized what he was thinking and, just as a shop window sometimes prevents the onlooker from seeing the objects behind the glass and folds him instead in a narcissistic embrace, his mind ignored the flow of impressions from the outside world and locked him into a daydream he could not have subsequently described." Flipping through the book finds passages like this on virtually every page. Despite the beautiful prose, though, I couldn't get past the cruelty of the people being described. I struggled to finish this book, and I don't think I'll be picking up the next one in the series anytime soon.

First Sentence:

At half-past seven in the morning, carrying the laundry she had ironed the night before, Yvette came down the drive on her way to the house.