text: As I read this book, When Madeline Was Young, I felt as though I was lost, wandering through a forest, searching for something - a beautiful butterfly, a perfect flower, a mystical cottage.  But there's nothing there.  It's just a forest full of a confusing tangle of leaves and vines and nothing mystical at all. And that's how this book is written.  It is a tangle of thoughts and words, spread from the first page to the last.  Nothing special at all.  
  
  I've read all of Jane Hamilton's books.  I loved The Book of Ruth.  Adored A Map of the World.  They were both wonderful and I will always have positive comments for them, but I doubt I will ever buy another book by Ms. Hamilton.  It's not that I want a "formula" book.  But I do want to read something that I can relate to and I don't relate to this at all.  
  
  I don't like Mac, the narrator.  His mother is just plain strange and not endearing or believable at all.  I can't stand Buddy, his cousin.  The rest of the characters I barely know and, quite frankly, don't want to get to know.  Perhaps I've changed since her first book came out.  Perhaps the author has.  But whatever the differences, my love of Jane Hamilton's books has ended.  Sadly
  