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Eight deadly words
May. 2nd, 2014 02:10 pmSo, I was trying to read Nancy Kress's _Beggar's Ride_. She's got a fairly good rep, and I don't know that I've actually read anything by her, but it was lying about the house, it was time for a new book, and it looked interesting. So, I was then afflicted by the eight deadly words. Now, this is pretty unusual, for me. I tend to find most people at least interesting, and if I don't like them, I can usually entertain myself by disliking them. I wasn't real happy with the frequent reports on the state of one of the main character's erections. I dunno, maybe it's a girl-thing, but really erections are pretty much only interesting to me if they are of immediate relevance, that is to say, clothes are about to be removed and people are about to get busy. Nor am I particularly interested in fleeting and inappropriate sexual responses in non-sexual situations, unless what you are trying to do is make your character particularly unlikeable. I mean, everybody has fleeting, inappropriate thoughts. I get that. Why the only inappropriate thoughts that the author chooses to share with me are all of a sexual nature suggests that she thinks that this is somehow important. I'm still not sure if she actually wanted me to dislike the character, but I don't really care. Because he was basically very uninteresting. As was, you know, everybody else.
But then. But then. Then there was a chapter which began with a paean to clinical depression. And I was done. Out of there. Finished. No more of this book thank you very much.
Yes, friends, it is possible that it got better, that Kress doesn't actually think that pain and growth are synonymous, that the other characters have interesting motivations, that the world is profound in some sort of way. But I do not care. Sixty-six pages. I read sixty-six pages, and I'm done, now.
(Pro tip: clinical depression is not a gift. It is just barely possible that clinical depression, in some people, also comes with a gift attached, because brains are weird and squishy. But the depression? Not a gift.)
But then. But then. Then there was a chapter which began with a paean to clinical depression. And I was done. Out of there. Finished. No more of this book thank you very much.
Yes, friends, it is possible that it got better, that Kress doesn't actually think that pain and growth are synonymous, that the other characters have interesting motivations, that the world is profound in some sort of way. But I do not care. Sixty-six pages. I read sixty-six pages, and I'm done, now.
(Pro tip: clinical depression is not a gift. It is just barely possible that clinical depression, in some people, also comes with a gift attached, because brains are weird and squishy. But the depression? Not a gift.)
