Okay. I have this grouping of books that I go for when I'm in the mood for something a little dumb and usually pretty salacious. They're typically straight out of the 80s but I thought this 70s book would fit the bill. And I was correct in that assumption. And while there were plenty of secrets, and affairs, and untoward proclivities, there wasn't quite... enough. Nothing shocking happened in this whole damn book. Even the main mystery - which I did not care about - ended as a disappointment. But, well, I didn't know that throughout and while I left this book disappointed I did fly through it, wondering what would happen. There was also the narrator's puzzling habit of referring to himself in the third person, intermittently. Which was weird. But I didn't go in looking for great literature and, even though this tried a little too hard to be high brow, this managed to be an enjoyable read with a decidedly lackluster ending. Make of that what you will.