Book Review: Sister Carrie, by Theodore Dreiser

This is part of the continuing series of random book reviews that'll be nothing like a New York Times book review. Gone is the ten thousand word analysis. Instead, here is a book review like you'd tell your friends.


The book: Theodore Dreiser's Sister Carrie.

Review:

Let me explain the quirks of Sister Carrie.

Ever talk to someone in their 70s, usually a pretty sharp grandmother, and they talk like this?:

You know I went out to have lunch with my old friend Barbara from high school? Well, we went to a little Italian cafe in the North End that had some of the cutest tablecloths I've ever seen. It reminded me of the tablecloths Barbara's cousin, Myrtle, makes. You remember Myrtle, right? Sure you do. She plays tennis at the country club with me about once a year? Brunette? Good Botox? I think she lives in Del Boca Vista these days. Or maybe it's West Palm. What's the town in Florida where the Sizzler is at? It's two towns over from that, where the Alligator Handbag Museum is located. Speaking of which, Myrtle's husband, Bob, bought their daughter a new handbag for her birthday. Can you believe it? Their daughter is now 27 years old and not married, despite dating that deadbeat sleaze she calls a boyfriend for the past five years. I mean, how long do two people need to be dating before they finally settle down, you know? And he doesn't even have a steady job. Sure, he's a third-shift manager at the Kwik-E-Mart and gets free coffee once an hour, but that isn't going to pay a mortgage no matter what kind of coffee it is. Even if it's that expensive Thai coffee I saw once on the Travel Channel with that swarthy Italian cooking guy, whatshisname, Anthony Boardman or something. The famous chef who always looks sweaty and lacks any biceps? That guy...

That's what Sister Carrie turns into. At some point, Theodore Dreiser morphed into a sixty-five year old woman with a jones for hot gossip. Everything in Sister Carrie becomes a digression, followed by another digression, followed by another...

At some point you forget the point of the story was a lunch with Barbara where the tablecloths were nice.