Disappointing, muddled, and at points unreadable. The book, much of it word salad, becomes increasingly painful and masturbatory throughout. The author wants to tell the reader that money isn't grubby or bad per se, that it can and should be used as an instrument of self-discovery, and that when used this way money can be a beautiful, effective and practical tool. But the author doesn't seem to want to say this and be done with it. The reader experiences the same frustrations found in Montaigne's essays: you wish the author would consider getting to the point. Of course, when an author writes well and shares plenty of genuine insight along the way, a meandering journey to "the point" can be a pleasure. But this author is not Montaigne. When an author writes to hear the sound of his own voice, the incentives are all wrong. The reader gets salad instead of insight. Thus a healthy practice here--with all writing in fact--is to go over everything, multiple times, ...
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