On the long list of reasons I am glad I'm not famous is this: I wouldn't want somebody to write a fictitious memoir of my life, and make up failed romances and mean spirited thoughts for me. I guess probably the whole historical fiction genre isn't my favorite.
That said, this is a well-written novel. How do you feel about the bad things life hands you? How do you feel about others looking at your life and judging it? Everybody has to answer these questions in their own ways. The artist in the story says the paintings are more about him than the subject, and I suspect the same is true for the author of this book and her novel.
Sometimes Christina of the novel appreciated some help, and sometimes she wanted to be respected and left alone. Other people can't always tell how one feels. It's a sad but touching story, about people we ultimately don't really know. It's the next book for review at the library. Then there are three more in this series.
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