Love Hurts

I've read at last Eleven Kinds of Loneliness by Richard Yates. I started it right after Revolutionary Road but for some reason I left it after the first two stories. I guess it wasn't the right time for reading it back then. Or else the first couple of stories are boring indeed.

The atmosphere is quite similar to that of the novel. It might be because of the era or a trademark of the author. The book is a collection of eleven short stories written between 1951 and 1961. The general aura was that of silent resignation and unspoken sadness. Many of them I felt were written for me, and found me. There were two of them set in a hospital, one about a man who lost his job, and one about an aspiring author.
What I really liked in the book is the clever use of titles. I'm not good at remembering titles, usually I have to go back to the first page of a short story several times, but I love it when the title hits the nail on the head, sort of captures the meaning of the story in one word. The stories were of common people with ordinary lives, yet there was something striking in them. These are the kind of stories that are quite simple at first sight, but could be analyzed for hours in class.
I know this sort of review seems too short and meaningless, but it's hard to express what I think and feel about the book. I guess I won't read more of his books for a while not because of the quality but I just don't want to be depressed if I can help it.

P.S. At the moment I'm reading The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory, and it's quite gripping. The story is told by Mary Boleyn, this innocent teenager in love with the king, and it reminds me of myself as a teenager, and it's an exciting juxtaposition.
P.P.S. This picture of Yates reminds me of Hemingway, but I guess it just shows my poor fantasy and knowledge of the world.