Stoner is another book that came upon my radar in recent months, as a forgotten classic that deserved to be remembered. And while I can appreciate a quiet novel about a man who devotes himself to the academic life, specifically that of English literature, what I can do without is reading yet another mediocre portrayal of women.

Stoner’s wife, his lover, and his daughter are all caricatures, not characters, and Stoner’s attitude towards them is cringe-inducing. His wife, Edith, is clearly made out to be the mentally unbalanced villain of the book—but from a man’s rather obtuse perspective. His lover, a much younger graduate student, is portrayed in the opposite light, again completely unbelievable. Stoner’s attitude towards his daughter (once she is no longer his adoring acolyte) is oblivious at best.

If Stoner was not meant to be a sympathetic character, the hero of his own story, then perhaps I wouldn’t have been so bothered. But then again, maybe I’m just too old to read shoddy depictions of female characters.