Not God, but bats and a spider who is weaving my guilt, keep the rendezvous with me, and shame copulates with every September housefly. this seemed too self-indulgent - too emotionally bloated.too much "why use one word when you can use ten and still say nothing?" going on. I like crisp prose, clean lines, smart phrasings. and as an opening sentence it just stuck in my craw and tainted the rest of the book. There is a way to be evocative and complicated and beautiful all at once, "the smile on your face was the deadest thing alive enough to have the strength to die," anyone? i can feel raymond carver hurling an empty bottle of booze at this sentence in disgust, and for once, i am with him. I am standing on a corner in Monterey, waiting for the bus to come in, and all the muscles of my will are holding my terror to face the moment I most desire. This book suffers from many of these sentences. and you know why?īecause i write huge purple monsters of sentences and only end up making myself small and shy when i come across them years later. and - well, let's save something for the biopic, shall we? and i would smoke a joint and lie on my tummy and record my huge earthshattering thoughts. and i would lie on my tummy and kick my feet in the air and record my tiny thoughts.
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