Browsing library shelves and picked up Falling Boy by Alison McGhee the other day and just finished it. To me, this was one of those books that while you're reading it you think...Why am I still reading this? But no, I continued on and hoped that everything would be tied up in the end. That in the last chapter it would all make sense and I would be astounded by the revelation. Unfortunately, deep down inside I knew that was unlikely to happen. I finished and thought...I don't get it. So, I quickly launched Amazon and the author's website looking for insight. All I found were glowing remarks from authors and readers about the outstanding imagery, emotional energy and depth of this book. What am I missing? It wasn't horrible but what was the point? Obviously I have no depth. I am depthless. Is that a word?