0.0/10
The new rating for this year includes an 0.0 -- and even negative stars if they are merited. The review has to answer the question, is there anything that you liked about it? Is there anything that was redeemable?
Is it harsh? Not in my books. Pun not intended. If you're going to present yourself as someone who has something to offer, in the literary world, you'd better have something worth reading. You'd at least better have something to say, that isn't drivel.
It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.
This was an Anger Read.
I was assured, by readerly friends, that this was an exceptional analysis of a sociopath. They forgot to add that it was exceptionally bad. But then, I didn't ask for them to qualify, so I should, I suppose, assume some of the blame.
About 20 pages into it, I knew this was headed to hell, ridden by all the witches in that kingdom.
Hallmark-Sociopath-Barbie meets Gregory House, M.D. ? Really??
I read in anger, past the cackling elderly ladies and the clucking professional women. I thought I'd picked up a book on Poultry Husbandry, so rife was this with terms of avian condescension. I cringe that I continued to read.
I read past the tortured metaphors and ladies getting their knickers in a snit.
Oh, oh, so much condescension from that authorial voice.
I read, because at every page I wanted the authority to say, "Are you kidding me?"
Mind you, I did a lot of skimming, taking as much scum off the chicken soup as I could, as it simmered on the stove, to be able to find it palatable.
You object to these mediocre metaphors?
Try reading the book, then get back to me.
The author telegraphed very early on who the sociopath was not going to be -- which is irrelevant. I love books that give the who at the beginning and then proceed to unfurl the why. But she didn't deliver on that score, either.
Every fifteen minutes, I too tap-tap-tapped my head -- to prove that I was still sentient, and would get through this.
Despite the many professionals who purportedly contributed to the shaping of this novel, I found nothing that resembled the condition(s) herein described, except in a form of cartoonish sketch.
I had my little diatribe ready at midnight, all set to spew my outrage, but I find it has dissipated in the morning light to ... "garbage ... who cares ...move on ..."
Except to say, mental illness is not a laughing matter. And equally, its explication is not something that can or should be handled by amateurs -- because they will fall far short.
If you're writing a lightweight book for entertainment, -- that's one thing. If you're pretending to address mental health from "an informed position", it is best to be informed about that position.
Scottoline's idea came to her, apparently, because she suspected one of her previous husbands was a sociopath. I'm not certain that a diagnosis was ever delivered, as such, but there you have it.
The thing is, we see "sociopaths" hiding behind every tree ever since Gregory House made it "cool" to be such. True ASPD (anti-social-personality-disorder) isn't all that common, but suddenly we hand out "sociopath" epithets to every nasty, mean, creepy, morally-repugnant little jerk that we come across, as if we were handing out Halloween candy; as if we suddenly had the handle on the true nature of a mental illness of which none of us knows almost nothing. We render our amateur diagnoses and we think we've got it all figured out with no insight whatsoever into the nature of the disease.
This is why this book is annoying to the nth degree: Ken and Barbie are cheesy choices to explain the destructiveness of sociopathy. These cast of characters are best left to hallmark channels and lifetime movies choices -- a nice little opiate for the afternoon-TV-viewing audiences.