I don't like to read Paulo Coelho's books. I have tried but the words just don't pull me in. I hear the stories are beautiful and full of emotions but something about them don't work for me. Why am I saying this here? Because that is exactly what happened between me and Brooklyn Heights. The story in itself was great one about a struggling writer in a foreign country with a son who is ashamed of his heritage and his mother. It was a raw, beautiful story. One that I tried so much to love. But I just couldn't get into it. And I know the reason why. This book has been translated from its original language and translated books always lose the charm of words for me. Every author has a magical blend of words when they tell the story - a sort of a quirk of the person who came of with the idea that took its form as a story. Translated books lose that touch of originality. So while I loved the story - the storytelling was a bit too bland for me. I tried to get into it but failed - miserably. An overall okay read - with a potential to be so much more. This ebook was provided to me by the publishers via NetGalley in exchange of an honest review.