Do you ever read a book and hit on a sentence or a paragragh early on that fills you with some measure of expectation? That was Anjelica Huston's autobiography, A Story Lately Told, for me. The prologue ends with this passage:
"People often think that looking in the mirror is about narcissism. Children look at their reflection to see who they are. And they want to see what they can do with it, how plastic they can be, if they can touch their nose with their tongue, or what it looks like when they cross their eyes. There are lot of things they do in the mirror apart from just feasting on a sense of one's personal beauty."
Since the prologue ended this way, I thought I'd be treated to at least some thoughtfulness as she recounted her life. I gave it a good six chapters (more than 50 pages) before I gave up. The book simply didn't flow. There would be a few paragraphs about this, a few more about that. Nothing to bridge them or to separate them. Just this happened and then that and this. The passage of time murky and the writing was dull and I just didn't care enough to finish.