This reading books because I like the author or becuase everyone else likes the author. Apparently modern authors don't have as many good books in them as they have just books.
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.