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juushikaI finished Lost Souls ... yesterday? last night? recently, loving it as much to the end as I did in my passionate accolades halfway through. Nothing was my favorite this time, then Ghost—a change from my passion for Zillah the first go-around.
Picked up a new-to-me book to read and review and had to put it down 35 pages in. London Bridges, Jane Stevenson. Normally I have a rule: to read at least 50, but usually 75 pages of a book before I give up on it. Because it takes me about that long to form an opinion I believe will hold up, and I like to have an opinion before I continue with, or give up on, or even worse give up on and write an "ohgodwhy" review of a book. I just can't make myself do that with this one, because 4 pages in I was groaning and bitching and 30 pages after that was no better. Because this:
This is the type of writing to send me into a rage that begins something like: "The road to hell is paved with adverbs." Stephen King and I agree on little but there, oh there, we can agree.
And on the selfsame page:
The Thane of Fife had a wife indeed and no matter where she is now her name was Lady Macduff because Macduff was the bloody Thane of Fife, seriously. That may be an intended character error rather than an accidental author error but it still bugged me. A lot.
But more to the point:
Adverbs again; furthermore do you know why we use he said, she said so often in literature? Because it's clean and pure and motherfucking simple, that's why, instead of sounding like you have a pen in one hand and a beleaguered thesaurus in the other. What always boggles me though that these two things can coincide: unnecessarily strong verbs yet still more adverbs than a high school English essay, and neither aspect has half the impact it's intended to have. It's a mess, is what it is. A ripe old mess.
It's when I get to that point that Devon generally has to take the book away from me because he's sick of hearing my dramatic readings. But this time, I reached that point myself. The plot doesn't hold me, the characters are caricatures, but really it's just that the writing is making my brain hurt so bad that no desire even to review this can make me continue with one more page.
So I picked up Kiernan's Threshold instead. It's a reread for me but I never reviewed it, so that's good enough for my goal to alternate read&reviewed with unread&unreviewed. And I am 12 pages in, and in love. I remember the story as clear as daylight, still—it hasn't been too long since I first read it—but that works. The plot, I can see, will unfold differently knowing where it ends, and Kiernan's writing is still fresh because as much as I remember of it, I cannot remember it all, multilayered, sensitive, artistic as it is.
When I sat down and opened up LJ it was just to type one sentence, so here it is:
It is not the book's most beautiful, most important sentence, but still it is better than the trash I'm leaving behind. But the real reason I wanted to share it:
Carnations and a shoveful of red cemetery dirt—if BPAL made this perfume I could die happy. They should make this perfume. I must have this perfume. It would be my beloved Penny Dreadful but drier, spicier, not as sweet. I can't think of two notes better suited than red loam and carnation, two notes I would better love. This book is amazing but now I am in mourning that I cannot slather on that dream scent this very instant.
Picked up a new-to-me book to read and review and had to put it down 35 pages in. London Bridges, Jane Stevenson. Normally I have a rule: to read at least 50, but usually 75 pages of a book before I give up on it. Because it takes me about that long to form an opinion I believe will hold up, and I like to have an opinion before I continue with, or give up on, or even worse give up on and write an "ohgodwhy" review of a book. I just can't make myself do that with this one, because 4 pages in I was groaning and bitching and 30 pages after that was no better. Because this:
"Good evening. Can you fill this prescription, please?"
Jeanene took the piece of paper and studied it conscientiously, nibbling her thumbnail.
"I'll have to check on the computer," she said apologetically. "This is a high dosage, and I'm not sure we keep it in that strength."
"It is very important," said the woman, abruptly.
—London Bridges, Jane Stevenson (4) (emphasis added)
This is the type of writing to send me into a rage that begins something like: "The road to hell is paved with adverbs." Stephen King and I agree on little but there, oh there, we can agree.
And on the selfsame page:
"There was something else peculiar about it: the prescribing doctor's address was in Fife; and while Jeanene's education had not been big on British geography, Macbeth, she recalled, was the Thane of Fife. So, surely Fife was in Scotland."
The Thane of Fife had a wife indeed and no matter where she is now her name was Lady Macduff because Macduff was the bloody Thane of Fife, seriously. That may be an intended character error rather than an accidental author error but it still bugged me. A lot.
But more to the point:
"Then the Krauts blew it up?" said Edward inelegently.
"It was destroyed by enemy action on December 14, 1940," confirmed Eugenides. Edward's interest quickened. His memorandum was dated September of the same year: good timing on someone's part.
"It must've meant a hell of a lot of sorting out for you," he observed, considering the old man thoughtfully. Seventy? Seventy-five? How old had he been in 1940?
"I was not personally involved at that time, of course," explained Eugenides.
——London Bridges, Jane Stevenson (28) (emphasis added)
Adverbs again; furthermore do you know why we use he said, she said so often in literature? Because it's clean and pure and motherfucking simple, that's why, instead of sounding like you have a pen in one hand and a beleaguered thesaurus in the other. What always boggles me though that these two things can coincide: unnecessarily strong verbs yet still more adverbs than a high school English essay, and neither aspect has half the impact it's intended to have. It's a mess, is what it is. A ripe old mess.
It's when I get to that point that Devon generally has to take the book away from me because he's sick of hearing my dramatic readings. But this time, I reached that point myself. The plot doesn't hold me, the characters are caricatures, but really it's just that the writing is making my brain hurt so bad that no desire even to review this can make me continue with one more page.
So I picked up Kiernan's Threshold instead. It's a reread for me but I never reviewed it, so that's good enough for my goal to alternate read&reviewed with unread&unreviewed. And I am 12 pages in, and in love. I remember the story as clear as daylight, still—it hasn't been too long since I first read it—but that works. The plot, I can see, will unfold differently knowing where it ends, and Kiernan's writing is still fresh because as much as I remember of it, I cannot remember it all, multilayered, sensitive, artistic as it is.
When I sat down and opened up LJ it was just to type one sentence, so here it is:
And it all washes back over her again, the indisputable reality of it, truth that smells like carnations and a shoveful of red cemetery dirt—that they are dead, gone, all of them, and she's as alone at twenty-three as someone who has outlived an entire lifetime of family and friends and lovers.
—Threshold, Caitlín R. Kiernan (12)
It is not the book's most beautiful, most important sentence, but still it is better than the trash I'm leaving behind. But the real reason I wanted to share it:
Carnations and a shoveful of red cemetery dirt—if BPAL made this perfume I could die happy. They should make this perfume. I must have this perfume. It would be my beloved Penny Dreadful but drier, spicier, not as sweet. I can't think of two notes better suited than red loam and carnation, two notes I would better love. This book is amazing but now I am in mourning that I cannot slather on that dream scent this very instant.
