I’ve been reading Freedom by Jonathan Franzen for about a week now and I really don’t care what happens to Patty, Walter and Richard. I intend to finish the book, but when I pick it up I feel the way I used to feel when certain tiresome coworkers approached my desk. I’d groan, put on a false smile and get set to wish someone better would come along.

Make no mistake, I think Franzen is a fabulously talented writer, and the rest of the world figured that out long before I added my all-important approval. His descriptive prose behaves like an Olympic figure skater; it swoops, glides, and does double axels rapidly. His dialog nails authenticity. He manages to vary techniques and voices effortlessly. I’d give my FiOS connection to be able to write the way he does. He doesn’t, however, succeed in making me care about the people he crafts so well.

What makes the reader care about fictional characters? Certainly fictional characters don’t have to be good people or nice people. The first example that comes to my mind is from a screenplay rather than a novel, but consider Tony Soprano. Tony murdered so many folks that I lost count. He was a horrid misogynist, a sneak, a racist, a unfaithful cheater, a manipulative narcissist and even tried to smother his mother with a pillow, but, gee, I liked the guy. I really cared about his fate and hoped unceasingly that his life would work out well. I was upset for days when he died before he got to finish his onion rings.

Patty, Walter and Richard on the other hand won’t be invited to my next cook-out. Patty needs to get over her parental disinterest issues and stop being a waste of space. I simply don’t see what’s so fascinating, sexy or cool about Richard. Poor Walter is perhaps the best of the lot, but can fade into the wallpaper without me noticing. I’m at the point in the book where Walter’s assistant is introduced and I briefly swelled with hope that she’d prove to be an interesting character with whom I could connect, because I am sure sick of hanging around listening to the others.

Yes, I could stop complaining and put the book away, but Everyone has read it, and, so, I must read it. Currently, it’s a frontrunner for the Pulitzer Prize, and I don’t want to be a dodo who fails to read The Great Books. Last year I failed with The Girl Who Played With Fire when a debilitating cloud of Scandinavian ennui forced me to give my copy to Goodwill after 200 pages. I might be slipping into trouble here, so I must persist.

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