After the joy of Hey, Nostradamus, with its bleak outlook on life and total lack of any happy ending, Eleanor Rigby is a return to (for me, at least) Douglas Coupland's annoying, quirky, childish, simplistic view of the world. Oh, if only things could turn up out of the blue to change our lives! Oh, if only we could all believe in God and have love in our hearts! Oh, if only...
He's such a good recorder of people's mannerisms and sayings, such a quick-sketch artist when it comes to pinpointing a mood or a trend, but his plots are ridiculous and his lazy, schmaltzy endings are just too much. The silly scraps of mottoes and supposed visions in this book are like some teenager's dream diary, and I really don't want to read another one of these. Another book about Vancouver, sure. But not this.
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