Before boarding a plane for Europe in Dallas, I knew I was going to run out of reading material. I stopped at the only bookstore in the terminal, and when I couldn’t find anything else, this was the book I picked.

The story seemed intriguing. It’s a family drama, told from the omniscient perspective of the writer that can get into the heads of the various characters, at different times. It tells the story of twins, separated at birth by a twist of fate and a moment of very bad judgment by their father.

The writer delves into the thoughts of the various family members and tells their stories and feelings with great detail, to the point, that I would start speed reading, or skimming, to get over the sections that didn’t seem to contribute to the story other than providing more detail about the characters.

The truth is, while I found the story and plot intriguing, the characters didn’t really ever interest me. I was constantly aware of the fact that I was reading a fabricated novel. I was following a story that somebody had made up, making an effort to keep it interesting. There wasn’t really that much going on. There was a lot of telling, but not much showing. There was a lot of thinking, but not much acting.

In the end, I put the book away, glad that I stuck with it all the way through, but also glad that I could leave the characters and I wouldn’t have to spend any more time with them.

The critics on the back cover call the novel mesmerizing. I call it sleepy. I recommend you pass.