Perhaps this January, more than any other, I have felt the need to withdraw, hibernate, and read--almost to the exclusion of all else. Maybe it's because I've got some kind of pinched nerve in my neck and shoulder area that makes it painful to crochet, write, or do much of anything with my hands... so I read.
The most recent two books that I've finished actually seemed to have some things in common. They were both about wealthy families and the precious objects they came into contact with. Both books were true--nonfiction--yet had incredible elements. Both stories were quite compelling and thought provoking, though one was told much better.
On the other hand, the next book I read was written very clumsily, sometimes awkwardly.
This was a fascinating story, but its main flaw was the terrible way in which it was written (so often the case with non-fiction, much to my dismay.) Maybe terrible is too harsh, but the author(s) were so focused on the dollar amount of everything that it became annoying, and many times the direction of a paragraph seemed to lead nowhere, or jump from subject to subject for no apparent reason. Perhaps they should have asked Edmund de Waal to write this book too.