
The book incurring my wrath today is Sleep, Pale Sister by Joanne Harris. I really liked two of her other books, Chocolat and Five Quarters of the Orange. I thought that they were brilliant, interesting, and thoughtfully written. Then... she reprints her second novel, and... I don't want to talk about this book. It's victorian death, painters, cemeteries, and ghosts. And pedophiles. And drug addiction - but the drug is laudanum. And it's used in a violent, controlling manner. And it's just weird. And dude, I'm really glad that it's done. I'm embarassed that I put it on my blog as what I was reading.
And I'm starting The Paris Review Book of People with Problems. I think that the only response to reading two horrendous novels in a row is to turn to short fiction.
1 comment:
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