It assaulted me with language. I fucking hated it. It made me want to communicate in short sentences for days. Hi. Beer. Great. Yes. Food. OK. Bye. Sorry. No officer. It was one of those books where you have to read 3 pages just to get to the part where someone finishes the damn sentence they started thousands of words ago. I know, I know! You want to know the book. I’ll tell you, BUT keep the following in mind. If the book I am about to name is, like, your favorite book or something you need to do the following: prepare a brief argument to justify your position regarding the novels redeeming qualities (but first quell your anger) and then rethink your position and just agree with me that it sucks. Here we go, A Fable by William Faulkner. Goddamned it sucked. Ooooh, I said GODdamned, could that be a biblical reference? Could you shove the bible in my face any harder Faulkner? Oh sorry Faulkner, you probably don’t understand what I’m saying. Would it help if I wrote “I” followed by 3 pages of uselessly wordy elaboration “get” followed by 3 pages of even more uselessly wordy elaboration “it” already? Sorry A Fable but you are now relegated to the no-mans-land region of my bookcases where you can sit unnoticed and unloved right next to The Shipping News. Have fun with that.
Monday, September 28, 2009
So Ink (via Naptime Writing) had a post recently about books you’re supposed to like but don’t. Thank you! I have wanted to rant about a book I read recently but it seemed like such a random post that I shelved the idea. But hey, now I have an “in” so let’s release some book hatred: