Corblimey, I can't say if I'm glad to have read this book.
The central character is self-centred and deeply unhappy. I truly don't know if the author is sharing his own unhappiness with the reader or if it is a portrayal by an author capable of thinking himself into a deeply flawed fictional persona from his lofty writing perch.
There's nothing so boring as people's holiday reminiscences when they're positive - "The beds were SO comfy and the waiters EVER so friendly" - and you try to resist stabbing yourself with a biro to relieve the boredom. Much more interesting is "...and when the emergency door blew out at 30,000 feet the whole plane gave out a bloodcurdling scream". Similarly, this tale of betrayal and mystiballs - as the central character takes aim at every she-person he encounters - is far from bland, far from a comfortable read. We all love a bit o' jeapordy, eh?
To what extent is this book autobiographical? Hard to say. If it's Jack's true account of the collapse of his own family then I suspect that the much-maligned wife will have a very different perspective on where it all went wrong, and their young son will be horrified by the graphic account of his father's deployment of, er, Mister Wiggly when he gets to read it in adulthood.
All in all the book is not without merit; it's maybe a warning to others that crap strategic decisions can end up corroding your soul and shrivelling your generosity. Readers who need happy endings would be best advised to stick to Little House on the Prairie and its elk.