It's a long time since I've been as confused by the experience of reading a novel as I was by "The World to Come". There are a lot of tick-boxes that made me think I would enjoy it -- in no particular order: Marc Chagall (around one of whose paintings the narrative ebbs and flows); 'rave reviews' when it was published in America; Hamish Hamilton (along with Allen Lane, the most reliable of Penguin's imprints); an interesting dust cover and a modest blurb. The narrative spans three generations of a Russian-Jewish (and later American-Jewish) family, one of whom is taught by Chagall as a boy in an orphange and there swaps a painting of his own for one by his (soon-to-be-illustrious) teacher. On its journey, the book offers some whimsically engaging musings on the merits of painting versus writing, the moment versus the journey, the here-and-now versus the now-and-always, time and a handful of dust. There are stories within stories, some of them charming, others more problematic: we are supposed to believe that one of the characters made her living as an author and illustrator re-telling Yiddish stories, slightly updated; Ms Horn reproduces the text for some of them, in prose that would have children running from the room and rushing for the remote. In a book that brushes with issues of authenticity, there's a cumulative lack of credibility: the narrative rattles on at great pace, but the historical research feels thin and unimagined. These nagging doubts took time to coaslesce (at least they did for me), but no one can escape the conclusion. The final chapter of the book is an embarrassing mess, but it does make some sort of sense of the previous 350 pages. Not since I had the misfortune of reading "The Lovely Bones" have I come across such hyperbolic twaddle. It's embarrassing, it's messy, and way, way too long. If someone took a blue pencil to this books, they could probably salvage something much better. Let's hope Dara Horn and her editors exercise greater discipline next time.