Far From Brooklyn

Run, by Ann Patchett

Wow, this is a terrible novel.  It’s based on a cringeworthy premise – a pair of black children adopted by a white family – and it just piles the cringeworthy details on and and on.  Just for example, the boys’ father lives in Boston and has political aspirations for his sons, so he names them “Teddy” and “Tip.”  Get it?!?

The boys’ apparent birth mother has been shadowing the family in the company of her daughter – a 12-year-old who has a penchant for poetic internal monologues and a sort of mystical ability to run track that is so striking that strangers comment on it (in other words, an utterly fake construct of a character) – and of course an accident brings these “families” together.

Oh, and there’s an uncle with faith-healing powers, and a prodigal (white) son, and I don’t know what else.  This novel is just one long string of laughable plot lines, puzzling premises, absurd character details, and tone-deaf dialog.

By the way, I loved Bel Canto.  Just for the record.