again! It's been nice, as I always wish I would make more time to read for pleasure. JW and I were browsing at A Different Light in WeHo after dinner a couple of Fridays ago and I picked up the new Edmund White novel. I also picked up a new book by a certain lesbian writer in many mediums who just might've written a play I read, found interesting, but didn't really care for.
Okay, WHY I went with the latter rather than the former is beyond me. Actually, it's not, because as much as I would love to read a bit of historical gay fiction about Stephen Crane and a gay prostitute, I'm always going to seek out Edmund White in the bookstores, and I was afraid I would forget about this other book, which I had read about in LAWeekly a month or two ago. Sounded interesting, so I picked that one out instead.
In short, I HATE IT. It's so completely annoying that I want to throw it out the window. It's frustrating, too; usually when I make time to read for pleasure, I'm so selective and I go with a book I've been desperate to read and have heard nothing but good things about, so it ends up being a great experience. This book is the exact opposite and I can't stand it. Still, I am determined to finish, as there's actually just enough compelling about it to make it readable, and I'm kinda flying through the pages. It's just that all the while I'm reading it I feel like I've been put on trial for charges I don't understand, and it's a really boring trial, fully of really pushy, obnoxious people angling for the judge's attention, but nobody's listening to anybody and the judge and I both are falling asleep, and in the back of my head I feel like I'm supposed to pay attention to this, that this is supposed to MEAN SOMETHING, but I just can't bring myself to care because I have no idea what anyone's getting at, and I'm pronounced guilty, of course, but I don't really think I did anything, or if I did do something, it's the same kinda thing everyone else does, and then when I show up for sentencing, I'm given the death penalty, except that it's death by WHINING. Not by my whining, mind you, but by the whining of the most narcissistic, self-righteous, insecure, simplistic, empathy-free, reactionary writer who ever lived, one with an ego that is rivaled in size ONLY by the enormity of her persecution-complex. GOD.
Only forty pages to go. Let's hope I make it out alive.