In Middlesex, our narrator is a hermaphrodite. But that doesn’t stop him from getting it on with three different people during the book, and that’s not even all. His grandparents were brother and sister, and they bump uglies on frame in this one as well.
It’s not all about sex, but that’s definitely the main topic. He’s come a long way from The Virgin Suicides (on my all-time top ten, by the way) where you felt like the trees weren’t the only things rotting from the inside. All that subtle unpleasantness is gone for this story. We’ll be getting all the unpleasantness front and center this time.
The narrator is a wonderful creation, and the characters seem as real as any you’ll encounter. You’re introduced to him, but you grow up with her. And they’ve both seen a lot.
This book is exceptional, and I’d recommend it to anyone with an inclination to read for pleasure. My only complaint was that especially by the end, we’ve had enough coincidental, dramatic happenings that the end seems more implausable than it should. I give it a .4 deduction, because it was worse than The Return of the King, but just barely.