Imperfectionists

I'm trying to remember what prompted me to pick up Tom Rachman's debut novel, The Imperfectionists. Both Library Journal and Publisher's Weekly gave it great reviews. I'm guessing it was PW's description that got my attention. The novel describes "the goings-on at a scrappy English-language newspaper in Rome. Chapters read like exquisite short stories, turning out the intersecting lives of the men and women who produce the paper."

I guess I should have paid more attention to the title. The stories are quite engrossing and the characters are very well-developed, but they are all seriously imperfect. The characters are so flawed that it became a little depressing. But I stuck with it. I was engrossed with these characters' lives, and I hoped that in the end there would be some kind of redemption or happiness for someone. But when something very bad happens to the only likable character, a basset hound named Schopenhauer, that was it for me. I'm mean, really? Was that necessary? That totally ruined it for me. After that, I gave up on these pathetic characters. None of them seemed to experience any growth or to even want to be happy. Maybe that was the point. Imperfectionists, indeed.

I need an Alexander McCall Smith novel to redeem my faith in humanity.