Jeanette Winterson’s semi-autobiographical tale of the coming of age of a young girl, inclined towards females, and brought up in a strict Christian community, is mediocre at best. The progression of Jeanette through puberty, lesbianism, and being outcast from her religious community, evoked no feelings of sympathy in me whatsoever. The story of a car bomber expelled from his terrorist cell would inspire more emotion in me.
Homosexuality combatting religious discrimination is one of the oldest battles in history, and Winterson’s book does not make it any more appealing. In fact, Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit merely compels me to throw myself into religious mania – not the desired effect of the book, I am sure.
The single good thing about the book is the quality of writing – Winterson is no Dan Brown and for that i am thankful. Here we merely have an uninventive, insipid novel that is written well. Would you read it now?