I finished Colleen McCullough's The Thorn Birds a couple of weeks ago. My thoughts? Meh.

There were moments of greatness, and the entire buildup to Meggie and Father Ralph's doing the didgery-do (you knew that was coming!) was compelling, and I really, really liked Justine and Rainier. But overall? Everything felt more than a little contrived.

Of course there would be a drought, and of course a fire would break out on the one acre out of 250,000 that the guy was next to, and OF COURSE the wild boar would land on the guy's head during its death throes, and OF COURSE one can't go swimming in Crete without taking one's life into one's hands.

There is a difference between an epic story and one where everyone dies. And as much as I wanted this story to be epic, it just wasn't. Death after death, tragedy after tragedy after tragedy. I just didn't feel it. (And I get misty-eyed during Survivor family visits.)

Perhaps if the characters had had any control over their lives I would have felt more invested. But everything happened to them—the letter from the estranged sister and her subsequent will; the lightning; the abandonment in Queensland; the war. The characters all stood by and let life bitch slap them for 600 pages.

I'm glad I read it, and I did enjoy it despite everything that I found annoying. I suppose it was the "classic" label that made me expect more. Had it just been another novel, I would have been fine with it.

I was hoping to find a new author to soak up, but no such luck. Maybe I'll try again if I find her at a second-hand store.