Wicked, Indeed

I wasn't sure whether or not I should post a review about this one, because I didn't actually finish it. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the fact that I couldn't force myself to step it up to the finish-line was as much a comment on the novel as any snippy remark could be.

Wicked, by Gregory Maguire, is one of the most beloved and renowned novels of recent history, and the rather brilliant plot is to thank for that. Or so I thought. How could I resist learning the untold story of Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West? What makes a person green--and what makes a person so wicked?

I can't begin to express to you my disappointment. This novel is nothing more than a contrived, poorly executed attempt to write "a great novel." Now, I would like to point out that there is nothing wrong with writing a "great novel"--but there is a subtle difference between simply producing one in the course of telling a story, and sitting down with the sole intent of writing one. Everything in this work is forced and overly-worded; it is a mimicry of the brilliant writers of centuries past. Part of the elegance of classic novels is that they were written for their time in relevant prose so stunning that even as it fell out of style it remained embraced and lauded.

Maguire's beautiful turn of phrase scarcely masks his overt attempt at being deep and symbolic. Blah. I couldn't stand it. I can't get much more in depth and critical of the story itself, because I couldn't force myself to finish it. Plus, the story had just barely started by page 300--seriously, Maguire--pretentious much?

And seriously, all you adoring fans--do you even know what the novel's about? Do you even grasp the concepts? Or do you simply think you should like it because so many other people do (and they made a Broadway play out of it)?

Blech. Poison ivy.