I'm glad that I didn't realize who John Irving was before I read this book--if I were expecting another Owen Meany, I would've been sorely disappointed. Do not, however, take that to mean that I didn't enjoy this novel.

I do love the sardonic tone that our omniscient narrator takes throughout the book--he points out quirks and hypocrisies with what amounts to an accepting shrug of the shoulder, illustrating and forgiving human imperfection without even realizing that he is doing it. And the plot--although the initial act that begins this story, a reporter who loses his left hand to a hungry tiger--is both honest and absurd.

My only complaint about this book--and the reason that I only gave it four stars--is that when it ends, it just... ends. Many loose ends are tied up but new ones are unraveled and then are left unresolved. If this were a movie, I would be expecting a sequel, so obvious is the way in which there is the possibility for another story (which I assume Irving will not ever want to write himself).

I flew through this book quickly, so if you are looking for something quick and yet very enjoyable, I would suggest giving it a try.