I cannot think of a more aptly named book, in retrospect. This is a book devoid of light, of hope, of pretty much any good thing you might cling to...and somehow, as the story progresses, it is still a tale of the many different forms of the extinguishing of light and life, even though I am not sure how, since the former never appeared to be present in the first place and the latter only in the very barest sense.
What I liked about The Dying of the Light:
The description - This is a quality people either love or hate, but I am the former and the author successfully painted pictures in my mind. I could see the river and the house and the debutante balls. The visuals, when they came, were striking.
Priscilla and Clarence - Pretty much the only characters of redeeming value in the entirety of this novel. All the rest, even if I felt badly for their state of mind, were such secretive, self-centered, pathetic, loathsome, spineless messes that I couldn't bring myself to like them even for a half minute.
What I didn't care for:
The raunch - I noticed several reviews on this book attribute this to being written by a man, but I've encountered plenty of female authors equally capable of writing these scenes. It really was...a bit much, regardless. It may have been to prove a point about Diana's character but mostly it just read uncomfortably.
No sense of time - Because of the way the book was laid out, beyond a certain point, I no longer had any inclination of "when" I was in history. When Diana was younger, there were enough references to her age that it was easy to deduce what era the country was in, but once Ash was a young man, it suddenly felt more muddled, until the very end. Throughout the bulk of the pages, though, nothing really seemed to give me a concrete feel for what the world around them was like. Then again, perhaps that was on purpose, since they all acted as though nothing beyond the perimeters of Saratoga bore any significance.
If I were to sum this up? A dark tragedy from which I couldn't seem to disengage. Hopeless and empty, it felt very Gatsby-like to me, emotionally; no one came across as likable, just pitiable for their very existence. The relationships were all dysfunctional at best and more often outright profane. The decadence was a thin, cheap veneer for the brokenness that seethed just below it. Reminiscent of The Lost Generation (also aptly named), present in Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises and A Farewell to Arms, as well as Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, this book had that same feeling of depraved lifestyles covering up the meaningless lives of vapid individuals. I had to keep reading to see how that trainwreck was going to conclude, but when I closed the book for the final time, I felt exactly after I did when I completed the aforementioned classics: utterly disheartened.