I think the author was not well served by her editor, as the literary veneer (pretentious epigraphs, Joycean method of punctuating dialogue) creates expectations that the facile prose does not fulfill. Definitely not a novel for people who need to like the protagonist, or find characters "relatable." Interesting view into the lives of white Kenyans, but the author is a tad superior, and her tone a little glib; she tries too hard not to be Isak Dinesen, but ends up making Out of Africa (the novel) seem like even more of a masterpiece in comparison. ( )

I read this book years ago but cannot remember the story or whether i liked it a lot or a little. Guess I need a do-over. ( )

I bought this book when it first come out and began to read the opening chapters. I got incredibly busy with my trip to Russia in the summer of 1999 and the book went into a box with other items going to storage for later. It was not until the summer of 2022, that I picked up again and read the entire novel in just a few days. Somehow, the book puts that time period, some 20+ years ago into context with not only the events that Marciano writes about but also how I felt about being in my early 30's. She captures life at this age so well. This novel does hold up well over time because of the reference points and the struggles that come with discovering oneself and the daily challenges of just living and loving where your are going as a person. In some ways, reading it twenty years later holds a wonderful sense of nostalgia too. If you have ever been caught between two relationships at one time, you can relate to some of these characters. ( )

This is essentially the worst, shallowest romance book wrapped up with literary prose. I detested it. The superficiality and stereotypes that characterize bad romance are fine if presented as a fun diversion. But the same issues in a book apparently meant to be taken seriously are offensive. The book is deeply sexist. The main character, Esmé, thinks like a nineteenth-century stereotype; I was honestly startled by references to cars, and shocked by references to laptop computers. They aren't anachronisms—the novel is set in the 1990s—but they jolted me.

Esmé is profoundly troubled in ways that I don't know the author is even aware of, because her brilliant "epiphany" at the end is just more of the same. Utterly passive in every respect, utterly ignorant, men are inhuman sex objects, and life is a love story starring her. ( )

I am a white American woman who lived in other countries in my young adulthood. Most of the thirteen years I spent overseas was in developing countries. When I talk to fellow Americans about my experience a common comment is “You should write a book!” Not necessarily. Maybe a book from that country by a person who really grew up there would be a better thing to read.

My sister sent me this book among some other paperbacks, and I just finished reading it, and I could barely get through it. While it’s set in Kenya (referred to as “Africa” throughout the book, as though it’s a stand in for the rest of the countries on the continent) there are no Kenyan main characters. Kenyans crop up as mechanics, servants, and drunk drivers. All the characters are”expats”. The author seems to realize that this is a limited view of a country and has her main character agonize over her and her friends’ insularity. This does not redeem the book.

I am also tired of books where the main events are primarily musical beds. Affairs can definitely drive a plot of a book like, say, Anna Karenina. But why should I care about these white people in Kenya having serial affairs with each other and ascribing depth to their self indulgences where there really isn’t any?

Well, I really did not like this book. I feel a bit guilty for being so harsh, but the hell with it. I just can’t read this kind of thing anymore without an intense negative reaction. Maybe if it were written by Flaubert I could have read it straight. But it was written in 1999... when will we be done with the white personal self discovery travelogue genre? I hate it. Stop doing this. No, just because you lived in another country ( and learned nothing about its actual people and culture but spent your time partying and sleeping with other white people), you don’t need to write a book about this. You have absolutely nothing interesting to say and you are bad and you should feel bad. ( )