I know how ridiculous this sounds, but there are just so many words in this novel. Injections of humour also tend to fall flat and you will often find lines like “I wished, more than anything, that I could buy a Durex for her heart” mortifyingly peppered throughout.
Her fictional prose is dense, thick like mayonnaise, and often forms itself into Pynchonian blocks of solid text. While Alderton has found great success as a journalist and essayist and I cannot deny the cultural impact of Everything I Know About Love, her transition into prose fiction cannot be described as wholly successful. I truly wish I could be kinder to Ghosts, but the whole reading experience made me quite depressed Alas, a part of me wishes that Alderton didn’t read into her position as the “Nora Ephron of the millennial generation” quite so literally as to essentially present a rehashed version of You’ve Got Mail with all the same ideas and foibles but without any of the charm, wit or timelessness.
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