I am skeptical by nature, and have grown especially skeptical, through experience, of anyone who seems to think quite a bit of themself. If one thinks enough of themself to establish a global organization dedicated to spreading their own "wisdom" . . . well, I formed an opinion of this author well before reading any of his books.
And I was not altogether wrong in my assessment, it seems. The omphaloskeptic pondering on the subject of love that filled this book was so laughable that one wonders if it was intended as a parody of philosophy. The author, speaking ostensibly as the main character, agonizes over the topic, and especially over the specific question, "How could she suddenly just not love me?" His obliviousness is tragicomic. "How could she have ever loved you in the first place," I instead wondered. "I have never met you and I can't stand you."
I did find myself in the pages of this book, however--just not in the way that was likely intended. I saw myself in the character of Chloe, who found herself in a relationship that was fine, but eventually grew tired of it, having never really reached the point of "love". I saw myself in the main character as well, devoted supplicant whose worship goes cruelly unreturned. But mostly, I saw myself in the author: the overwrought analytic who can't see what is painfully obvious.
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