This book couldn't be more different from its predecessor. Where Dream London was whimsical, imaginative and laugh-out-loud funny, Dream Paris is perpetually grim and often grotesque, bordering on horror. (There is a long dining sequence that gives Monty Python's The Meaning of Life a run for its money.) The Dream World isn't particularly dreamy; there's some odd stuff here and there but nothing to compare to what was seen in the previous novel. But the worst thing about it is the protagonist and narrator, a miserable misandrist teenage girl who never misses an opportunity to insert a snide remark about how men always are, or how they are always doing this or that to women. A perfect opportunity for a character arc, you would think, but despite a wake-up call late in the story, she doesn't really change. She continues to take maximum offense at everything men say to her, no matter how innocuous. There must have been some microaggressions that I missed. ( )