I appreciate good writing, particularly since it's becoming harder and harder to find. Turning a lyrical phrase effectively in a piece of prose is a skill not every writer can muster. Such is the case here. Aside from the lack of a compelling plot (how long did it take you to figure out our boy was dating a relative? - certainly a lot sooner than he did)Morrow doesn't know when to turn off the stylist in himself. I once heard a critic call Robert James Waller's writing style "gaseous". That critic obviously hasn't opened this book. I'll go one step further and call Morrow's style gastric (as in distress).