I cannot tell whether I hated this book, could just barely bear it, or what. I was consumed by the idea that it had won the Booker Prize , and really there was something about the studied conversational language that carried me forward through to the end. There were painful, truthful elements about pain, infidelity and lifetime friendships that rang true across the plaza like a church bell. Still, I think maybe it was abysmal. But I am a Jewish professional, as a Deputy Director of the Contemporary Jewish Museum, and so I felt some sense of obligation to get to the end and more fully grasp over what the author was puzzling. A few quotes made me want to fold down the page and refer to them later: [Parenthetically the author writes,] “(he would have said his faith but Finkler was Finkler and Finkler had no faith)” p. 56 ‘So this museum…’ Finkler said, when the table was cleared. Hephzibah inclined her head on his direction. ‘…don’t we have enough of them already?’ ‘Museums in gen...