Though I failed to comprehend the value of this novel’s central focus, there were also plenty of ancillary qualities I also disliked. Weary platitudes about not fully understanding “God’s will” or “His plan” abound. Assuming with unquestioning faith that these visions come directly from God, Owen takes up a queer strain of idiosyncratic fundamentalism. But his story starts to derail when he becomes tormented by hallucinatory glimpses of his impending and untimely fate. Meany, the physically diminutive but spiritually robust protagonist, is both likable and ornery. Owen Meany gets off to a promising start, introducing two young boys whose lives become tragically intertwined by events beyond their control. I’m willing to admit that my aversion to Owen Meany might reveal more about my personal biases than the quality of Irving’s talent, but that doesn’t change my perspective. But I found it overwrought, self-serving, and often yawn-inducing. From plenty of legitimate perspectives, Owen Meany is a “great” novel, one deserving the praise it often receives. Despite containing some moments of keen intellectual insight and a handful of endearing events and characters, John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany is among the worst books I’ve ever read. I already wish I could get back at least a portion of the many hours I spent wading through this novel, so I’m not going to waste much time reviewing it.
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