I used to write book reviews all the time. I would read a book, write a review, get a personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut and start the process all over again. Those were the days when I saw the world from pepperoni-colored glasses. I didn’t have to worry about calories or fat content. Hell, I didn’t even really have to worry about reading. Just cut and paste a few words of synopsis off the back cover and — voila! — Pizza Hut here I come. Who cares, right? It was just a personal pan pizza. Wasn’t like it was a medium, or, better yet, a large. Now that I am older, and Pizza Hut’s personal pan pizzas are a distant memory, I don’t read as much. I was spoiled as a schoolboy. Now there’s no incentive. I have to pay for my own pizza; I have to pay for my own books. The world is not fair.
So without further lusting over undersized, constipation pies served in a cardbox board ornamented in a gallon of grease, here is my review of Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. Spoilers are all over this mug, as my old English teacher Grem would say.