Small Great Things - Jodie Picoult

Teenage me devoured every book written by Picoult. I can safely say that I was a massive fan of her work but then my love started to dwindle. I don’t know if it was the anticlimax of hearing her talk a recording for the BBC (I don’t know what 14 year old me was expecting but I left with a unfulfilled feeling) or the fact that my grandmother would constantly remark that I needed to start reading ‘happy books’ but Picoult got a little left behind as I entered my 20s.

I did swap my usual cuppa for a G&T at times just to get through.

I don’t know what possessed me to give Picoult a little search on amazon but as I was scrolling I decided to give her another go. I have fond memories of being curled up in my grandfathers armchair hidden within the folds of my favourite blanket discretely wiping away tears as I read for hours. I misjudged this book in thinking that I would have a read, sympathise for the characters, have a little cry and then get on with my day and onto the next book.

The Amazon reviews promised that this would be a ‘thought provoking’ read and I expected nothing less. I know that as much as I watch and read I will never be able to educate myself into being able to understand the complexities of racism. What I didn’t expect was the solo-therapy session which had me question my innate racism.

As much as I like Picoult’s choice of topics and characters this puts me in a sticky situation upon reflection as I don’t actually think I enjoyed the storyline, but instead the discussions garnered as a result. The characters had depth but the plot was predictable (we all know Picoult is going to throw in an *unexpected* spanner towards the end for the main character) and this made the book fell slightly vacuous. 

Maybe I remember Picoult’s previous books with rose-tinted glasses but this didn’t feel like her usual standard. In taking on the task of writing multiple characters in the first person I found myself sometimes confused as to whose viewpoint I was reading and this is not a problem I recall having in the past. What started out so promising with nuanced characters and gripping duality in the first few chapters lost its momentum and authenticity. Nevertheless, this falls to the wayside as my biggest gripe is with the ending. How can an author spend all but the last twenty pages highlighting the inherent prejudice of the American legal system and our fundamental inadequacies as humans and then whip out at the last second a full 180 degree turn and suddenly conclude that all we need are for white supremacists to realise they are wrong as opposed to concluding that the system will never deliver justice if we do not address not only the flaws in the system, but the flaws within ourselves? The conclusion was a little too rose-tinted for my liking. If Picoult was trying to give us hope, she’s instead left her characters delusional.

I can’t deny that Picoults writing is thought provoking and educational which means I’ll never be disappointed, just maybe not entertained. [NR]

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