Five stars for the first 2/3, two stars for the rest.

I thought most of this book was gripping. The early adventures are exciting, and shot through with the dread of ominous prophesy. The infamous long sections on the island where nothing happens and we get detailed logistics of house-building and tool-making... I found these all fascinating. The industriousness and cleverness Crusoe displays as he turns whatever he can to his meager advantage are inspiring-- literally, I was inspired. The religious meditations on redemption and deliverance and greed are sincere and moving.

How do you build up Western civilization from scratch? In this novel we witness an evolution that starts with its narrator sleeping in the trees like an animal, finds him discovering agriculture almost accidentally, and depicts his painstaking recreation of many staples we take for granted, including shovels, baskets and umbrellas. I may lose my credibility by confessing that, in fact, this book sometimes reminded me of a video game, in which you start helpless and alone, and slowly "power up" until you come to dominate the land. There are even some attempts at humor, although they are somewhat buried in the historical distance of the novel's voice.

But then... (view spoiler)[ It all goes downhill, at least for this reader. I'm not one of those upset by the depiction of the "savage wretches", or the arguments for the superiority of Western civilization over the Indians' made again and again in the last part of the book. Nor am I more than a little annoyed that his friend Friday willingly and immediately became, without anyone thinking twice about it, the white Western Crusoe's slave. This novel is a product of its time and place, and it's not hard to see the thing from the narrator's point of view-- who among us did not feel alienated by the descriptions of the natives' cannibalism, and a kinship with the good English captain saved by Crusoe?

No, my problem with the book's last act is that is was boring, ordinary and ill-plotted. The magic of Crusoe imprisoned on his island in complete isolation for decades was gone. Instead we suddenly get a lot of guests: first Friday (interesting for a while), then a Spanish sailor, then Friday's father (what?), and finally the party is really spoiled by the English captain and his crew, engaged in a mutinous rebellion we don't care much about.

There is a deadness of mood that afflicts all of these final proceedings: the plotting to seize the English ship, the return to England and Lisbon, the completely random encounter with wolves in the French mountains, even the return to the island. It's like the last 100 pages are just a first draft. The facts are spelled out, but the timing feels off, and, even worse, we feel almost no emotional connection with the narrator. The incredible event of his rebirth into society after decades of solitary torment is barely described. We who attended him over the years, who witnessed his ongoing struggles with God, the protracted miracle of the production of bread, and the slow transformation from a roguish youth into a wise philosophical middle-aged man-- we feel we deserve more.
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Incidentally, as it's always interesting to see how language evolves over the centuries, I'm happy to say that this book is filled with words that are used slightly differently from what we're used to. Like the narrator hidden behind a tree, wondering if he should "discover" himself to his enemy ("dis-cover"). It adds entertainment, and some feeling of linguistic depth, to the experience of reading Robinson Crusoe.