I was overwhelmed by its relentless wittiness. Reading it is like being in a steam room, or on a roller coaster, wow, this is so exhilaratingly good, I was overwhelmed by its relentless wittiness. Reading it is like being in a steam room, or on a roller coaster, wow, this is so exhilaratingly good, and exactly where I want to be, but eventually my mood changes to ‘get me outta here’...more
Every time I opened the novel Comemadre and began to read, it felt like some big hulking horrible thing had just grabbed me by the wrist and wouldn't Every time I opened the novel Comemadre and began to read, it felt like some big hulking horrible thing had just grabbed me by the wrist and wouldn't let go. I couldn't get away. Then I remembered. I could close this book. I could let it go. I could pick up Wind in the Willows and never think on this book again. ...more
I have a beautiful big paper arc written by a writer whom I've never read before, but I know she is a NYT bestselling author, and that her books are dI have a beautiful big paper arc written by a writer whom I've never read before, but I know she is a NYT bestselling author, and that her books are deeply loved.
I open the book.
The first sentence is: The walled and gated MacGrath estate was a world unto itself, protected and private.
And I think: Gosh, isn't this a slightly uninspired way to begin a book, I mean, couldn't she have tried a little harder than to call something "a world unto itself," which was probably a little on the clichéd side even before the first time anyone wrote it down?
Ok, moving on, the next two sentences are: On this twilit evening, the Tudor-style home's mullioned windows glowed jewel-like amid the lush, landscaped grounds. Palm fronds swayed overhead... and okay okay that's enough, because my brain is saying: "On this twilit evening?" "windows glowed?"..."Palm fronds swayed?"
I'm just talking about my own experience, here.
Speaking solely from my own point of view, this writing makes me feel bored and irritable at the same time. It feels so bland. It's as if someone is slapping me with wet cardboard. It's not exactly hurting me but I want to get away from it.
But: Should I care so much about the prose style? Because, maybe it's a good story.
But I do care. I want to read a story that is written with care.
So, most people would keep reading for several more pages at least, even if they felt the same way about these first sentences--I mean, can you really tell anything at all from two or three sentences?--but for me I'm already thinking that, if this is how a book begins--if the beginning is, indeed, the place where a writer must capture my attention--then I'm done.
And this is normally where I would put a book down.
But this time, because I've heard so much about this writer's books, I open a few pages at random, just to see if I can find just one sentence to fall in love with, anywhere, or some phrase, at least, that catches my eye.
And I read:
Frankie felt a heaviness in her heart, a sorrow that she knew would stay with her...
Jamie was there instantly, holding her steady. She reached for his hand, held it, not daring to look at him...
She looked up in surprise...
He shrugged, as unable to find the words as he'd been to process the grief...
He looked at her a long moment...
That's all I have to say about this book, except to add that clearly I am way, way an outlier on why I read, which is at least 90% for the sound of the language, for the jolt of reading a sentence that is both describing something completely familiar to my human experience and at the same time is said in a completely new and revelatory way, and whenever I begin a book that does not do these things, both of them simultaneously, I think of all the books waiting to be read, and I move on....more
I've created a new shelf for books that I don't just quietly dnf, but that I reject so emphatically that I run away from them screamingly, long beforeI've created a new shelf for books that I don't just quietly dnf, but that I reject so emphatically that I run away from them screamingly, long before I've come to the final page....more
I was energized, and I was loving it, I mean this writing is so amazing, and it's surreal in the best way possible, original, unexpected, wow...
anyoneI was energized, and I was loving it, I mean this writing is so amazing, and it's surreal in the best way possible, original, unexpected, wow...
anyone who has ever lost a limb knows that on occasion, for a few brief titillating seconds, you feel as though it has returned...
and of course because this is a surreal masterpiece, the limb in question is a head. The next page, it gets smushed back on a neck again. And all at once on that page, page 6, is where I'm, like, hey, I'm really tired of "surreal." I've had enough of it. I'm done for now with these dismembered women and their reattach-able heads and so on, in fact, I'm sick of innovation and experiment. I'm done. I'm retrenching. Gimme some realism. Gimme some Hemingway. Gimme some Thornton Wilder. Gimme some Theodore Dreiser! I've spent six years or so in the thrall of experimental fiction and I need a break. It's like realizing you're really tired of curry and you're in desperate need of something with ketchup on it. I have no idea how long it will last. Until tomorrow maybe....more
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