This book is little more than two hundred pieces of paper bound together in an assault against most of the senses. I say most only because the glue used to hold together this atrocity has a pleasantly narcotic odor. But sight? That’s the first to go, rubbled by the garish cover art and the self-satisfied photograph of the author. Sound leads to misery, if not madness, when I hear the phrases the author clearly treasured echoing in my head: on page one, the protagonist “pries open the kaleidoscope of lust only to find herself there,” and it only gets worse. My fingers grow numb across the pages of this endless chore. And as for taste, that’s a lost cause. So I rate this book one half sense out of five, and I retain my sixth sense to know when I am seeing a dead narrative, brought down by poor conception and poorer execution.
©2021 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
No comments:
Post a Comment