" Really for a story told in the first person by a precocious child whose greatest joy is to be tucked into bed and kissed by is mommy... this is about as good as it gets. The narrator goes on to describe myriad things that he could not have possibly been privy to, which is never explained despite the 600+ pages of room to explain such a thing. The writing is so terribly pedantic and rambling, that it is like a simile, a round and happy simile with a moustache and the unforgettable smell of an old barber shop, that has perhaps booked an airline ticket to some favourite place, only to learn that during the flight that it is hijacked by a giant and menacing metaphor and ummm... where was I? Oh yes, reviewing Proust. If you don't like me and you are pretty sure that I don't like you, please read this book... at least twice. "
— Robyn, 1/1/2014