One wonders why this is even remembered, let alone revered in any way. It covers similar ground to Lord of the Flies, but is less well written and visually memorable. Maybe something's lost in the translation (it's definitely lost in the bland reading), but it was just ... eh ... so what. Years and years ago I saw the film version (with the setting and characters relocated to the UK rather than Japan). That wasn't that interesting either but it was more interesting than this. Easy pass on this one. I didn't feel transported into their world ever. It was plodding and pedestrian without much in the way of thought provoking ideas or memorable situations or imagery or mood.
I saw this after seeing the film version (which I found enigmatic and thought provoking, despite being slow in places and having a weak ending).
The film version was significantly different than the book, but the book was just tedious and unimaginative. It lacked moodiness and artistry, and was just a chore to have to listen to, but I persevered.
Tedious dialogue, unimaginative aliens, tedious repetition of events ad nauseum. I couldn't recommend this to anyone.
If only he had stuck to the food.
Overall, VERY boring, and absolutely FULL of name dropping (to the point you wonder if these stories being relayed really even happened, or if the author's inventing his memories). He also keeps referring to a female companion or wife and kids but tells us nothing about her/them (at least not up to the point I simply had to quit reading).
Because I thought there might be interesting pictures, I also bought a hardback copy of the book, but the pictures in the book are as boring as the text in the book, almost an after thought, and often just generic proprietors awkwardly standing in front of food.
It's hard to make this subject matter boring, but the author excels at it. This is lifeless on the page (or in the earbuds).
Knowing what I know now, I'd absolutely pass on this title; and I couldn't recommend it to anyone.
I can't imagine anyone enjoying this other than the author herself. Enough with the whining, moping, and so on. This incessant complaining, moping, whining about her loneliness after separation from her husband because of job reasons can be of interest to no one. Do we want to read how she's so bored she spends her mornings wasting her time on Facebook or Skyping with her husband? If she'd stuck to the other parts of the story about foods and travels and so on this would have been an okay read (it's kind of dull and humorless even then), but as it reads now it's just like reading her diary entries and little else.
Written with more life and humor and cut out all the ENDLESS, repetitive personal stuff about her marriage and loneliness and boredom. If she's bored, we're even more bored.
The narrator wasn't the problem here, it was the author (and really the author's editor).
I tried. I really did. But this was just terribly, terribly unengaging. Every time I was interested in the subject of a chapter I found myself getting frustrated with the incessant droning on and on (and on and on) about how miserable the author was.
I'd consider them equal, depending on one's preference. The narrator is mostly quite good.
Reflexions by Richard Olney would be a good companion read to this.
A very good narrator, I just wish men would learn not to attempt women's voices, as Rubinstein does to a small degree when speaking M.F.K. Fisher. I never like this. It always reminds me of Norman Bates speaking as his mother to some degree. To Rubinstein's credit, it's a small degree of annoyance, nothing that matters much as some others do (listen to the narrator of The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt released on the same day -- much worse [in that case I decided to forego the audiobook as a result]).
No, but it enriched my understanding, gave a different perspective somewhat, and showed these people such as Julia Child more humanly than their public personas allowed.
It's the first audiobook that makes me want to start all over after I've finished.
A good editor and a few years of psychotherapy for the author.
Anything not remotely associated with Julie Powell.
The repeated swearing, the negativity, jadedness, and cynicism trying to pass for breezy hip and cool, the mis-prononunciation of everything French, and the self-involvement of the author, whom I found most unpleasant to spend time with.
A sense of wasted opportunity.
What a great book this could have been if it weren't for Julie Powell writing it (and if it had a good editor insisting she clean it up with all the unnecessary and annoying and off-putting foul language).
No wonder Julia Child and Judith Jones were so turned off by it.
Yes, people speak like this sometimes in real life, but real life isn't a book, and yes, one can see at times that Powell is trying to be flippant or channel Erma Bombeck and her ilk, but it comes off here as perhaps a bit too true. Frankly, we just don't like the writer, and so we disengage from trusting in her as she spins what could have been a very interesting story.
Worse, one can see through references, allusions, and so on that Powell is obviously intelligent, but what a waste she has to muck it up with all the language. It just gets hard to take, page after page (and listening from Audible, the mispronunciation of everything French hurts the experience as well).
I bought this book the day it hit store shelves, just found it, no review first. It's now eight years later and I'm just finally forcing myself to get through it. I've tried. It's just so off-putting in so many ways.
While I might cook a recipe from Julia Child regularly, I would never invite Julie Powell to any of my dinner parties.
Julia will live on in print, and the film version of Juie & Julia (wisely cleaned up for the masses by Nora Ephron, et al.), long after Julie Powell is just a bad memory, like a bad taste that lingers, long after you think it should be gone.
I'll never know because I never made it past the first chapter -- all five times I tried.
As another reviewer wrote, "The narrator's ability to very deliberately speak each word as if it stood on its own rather than in the flow of a sentence is maddening." That pretty much sums up how I felt. Why would anyone choose to speak like this instead of naturally as one might when in front of another person? Who is it serving? It was very distracting and didn't add to the story at all, only got in the way.
Frustration. I never made it beyond the first chapter. I couldn't relate to anything at all I was hearing.
It might have been the end of the eternity, but it seemed to go on for an eternity. I've had this for over a year or so and tried and tried but just could never get into it at all. It was finally with a very swift decision that I decided to delete it and move on. I can live with not knowing. I just couldn't imagine sitting through this torture for hours on end.
The insights I gained into the decline of France's leadership role in food and wine and some of the reasons for it, most of which I wouldn't have guessed at. It's a great bridge to cross from the idea of France we have as the world leader in food and wine compared to today.
The influence (and later decline in influence) of the Michelin Guide -- mainly because the author covered it a few times too often. :) It was also interesting to get insight into the people behind the names we've come to recognize (Paul Bocuse, et al.).
The narrator was excellent. In fact, I could change the speed to 1.25 or 1.5 and still follow it beautifully -- a first.
The best France we know exists in our minds and is already gone.
I'm glad I read this. The price is an absolute bargain. It's definitely changed my outlook and understanding of a world I thought I knew but had perhaps romanticized.
The build of Craig Claiborne finding his way in life, coming up with a dream, and achieving it. Once he has it, though, the momentum is lost, Claiborne becomes a mostly still functional alcoholic, and it catches up with him. End of story. Not much there. No great payoff or life lessons learned.
Anyone. Honestly, what was the guy thinking? What was his producer thinking? Who were they narrating for, did they think? Thankfully, after the first hour or two the narrator tones it down noticeably from what you hear on the sample, but still, just about anyone would have been better.
Probably not. I don't enjoy spending time with nasty, mean-spirited drunks in life nor in art.
It was interesting to learn about how Claiborne's work, like that of Julia Child, shaped America's interest in better food and ultimately in foodie pursuits. It was also interesting to learn how Pierre Franey fit into the equation. I'd read it just for this aspect, but with the understanding that it's truthful and doesn't have a nice payoff like fiction might.
To his credit the author writes it well and also gives aside notes to clarify things. Well done an appreciated.
I honestly don't get this book. The IDEA of it is one thing, but what we have here is nothing more than an outsider looking in and saying I want to emulate those people so I'll copy what they do -- never realizing that they themselves aren't copying anyone, they're feeding their souls and their own inner natures and priorities.
Page after page we're told to emulate them, not be true to ourselves.
Turns out, I didn't need a book to be like them. I have always sought out new experiences, new foods, used the good china and silver (several sets by now), made cafe au laits in bowls, enjoyed the clink of a tea cup when it meets its saucer, enjoyed exploring the worlds of tea and coffee thoroughly starting in 1986, driven a convertible because it makes me happy (the experience, not what others think of my experience, of which I could absolutely care less).
Who cares about a book telling you the advantages of being like someone you're not. Find what please YOU and be THAT.
Terrible. This is the most pretentious and soulless work I've come across in years -- perhaps ever.
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