Yesterday I read The Vicar of Sorrows by A.N. Wilson.  What a horrible book.  I liked Jesus: A Life by Wilson but this one was simply horrible. Characters too horrible to believe, a plot based on misunderstandings and mistakes, and in the end nothing but annihilation of one man and pain and agony to everyone else.  I grimaced throughout this whole book and could not wait to reach the last page.

There is no family relationship in The Vicar of Sorrows that nurtures or supports or even tolerates the other, instead secrets are kept, hatreds are fed, and prejudices are cultured. There is no sex in this book that is kind or giving, it is either pathetic or wolfish, and rarely satisfying.  There is no character that falls within the realm of normalcy: one woman finds solace only in her stuffed animals; teenage lesbian fantasizing and fetishizing abounds; the villagers are all over-eager, scruffy, and thoroughly unappetizing; and the Travellers are all criminals (naturally, as well as drug taking, wife swapping, and child abusing).

Nothing is to be gained from reading this sorry, soggy, limp, and pathetically purple-prosed book: neither pleasure nor edification nor even sleep: it is too annoyingly horrible to be soporific.