Although virtually non-existent in the opening chapters, Owen Meany’s latter half indulges in the worst kinds of golden age thinking, lamenting the loss of “simpler” and “less corrupt” times in American life and government. I usually relish an author who takes up moral issues directly, but this novel prompted the opposite reaction. Instead of creating the sense of meaningful, cyclical resonance I’m sure he was going for, Irving comes off as not being able to distinguish between an amusing but irrelevant anecdote and a potentially rich story component.Īll of the above would be forgivable if not for Owen Meany’s most damning quality: its insufferable and petulant moralizing. He sets up little vignettes and then comes back to them over and over, as if trying to remind us how clever he is for having thought them up in the first place. Irving spends page after page describing events and characters that are of little significance for the story as a whole, giving the impression that he doesn’t properly edit his work or mind wasting his reader’s time. Though I failed to comprehend the value of this novel’s central focus, there were also plenty of ancillary qualities I also disliked.

Weary platitudes about not fully understanding “God’s will” or “His plan” abound. Assuming with unquestioning faith that these visions come directly from God, Owen takes up a queer strain of idiosyncratic fundamentalism. But his story starts to derail when he becomes tormented by hallucinatory glimpses of his impending and untimely fate. Meany, the physically diminutive but spiritually robust protagonist, is both likable and ornery. Owen Meany gets off to a promising start, introducing two young boys whose lives become tragically intertwined by events beyond their control. I’m willing to admit that my aversion to Owen Meany might reveal more about my personal biases than the quality of Irving’s talent, but that doesn’t change my perspective. But I found it overwrought, self-serving, and often yawn-inducing. From plenty of legitimate perspectives, Owen Meany is a “great” novel, one deserving the praise it often receives. Despite containing some moments of keen intellectual insight and a handful of endearing events and characters, John Irving’s A Prayer for Owen Meany is among the worst books I’ve ever read.

I already wish I could get back at least a portion of the many hours I spent wading through this novel, so I’m not going to waste much time reviewing it.

John irving's a prayer for