Someone asked for a brief review of the books that I wasted my spring break reading, the ones I read instead of tapping some ass. Not that a significant amount of ass presented itself for the tapping; I think the most action I got all break was in some chubby junior's imagination who tried flirting with me while I was visiting some old teachers. Strike one: Wearing a tshirt that says "Let me get one thing str8: I'm not". Strike two: Fortysome pounds overweight, frosted hairtips, and black fingernail polish. Strike Three: Making mention of me on your xy.com profile, in the hopes that I would notice. Negative points to Jay, who pointed that out to me, and has proceded to taunt me since. I refuse to be neurotically his, for him to be my chubby shadow, following me in the hallways between classes. I would tell him to go Plath himself, but I have the feeling his poetry is more the 'no one understands me' variety and less like the world's greatest, longest suicide manifesto. He should just up and pull a Mishima or get turned into a tragic after-school special.
Now that I've got that out of my system, someone asked for reviews of the book, and ask and ye shall receive, or something corny like that. In the words of Bitch and Animal, I aim to satisfy, I aim to please, just give me some booty that I can squeeze.
Heart of Darkness was just stupid. Every other word was 'inscrutable,' 'indeterminable,' or similar. It's just bad writing, but I have to read it for class, so at least I got it out of the way. Though I thought I would hate a first person narrative about growing up in Afganistan, The Kite Runner was gorgeously written, probably my favourite book I read during break. The DaVinci Code currently tops the NYTimes Book List, so any review of mine is going to suck. But it was fun, and I felt smart while reading it because I was able to comprehend a few of the codes before the characters. While England Sleeps is by my favourite author, David Leavitt, whom I praised a few posts previously, so I won't now. I really liked it, though. Speaking of really liking something, If You Were With Me.... was some gorgeous short stories about gay guys. While the writing was crisp and clear, my favourite part was that in a collection of short stories about gay men, there was no whining about AIDS nor any angsty coming-out stories. It was good writing, to be sure, but it was good writing without cliched topics, which made it even better. The Goat (or, Who is Silvia) is by Albee, ergo it is genius. It won Best Play from Tony, New York Drama Critics Circle, Drama Desk, and Outer Critics Circle. Yes, I looked that fact up. Bite me. I'm not a big fan of modernist literature, My Antonia was pretty good, better than To The Lighthouse, definately. The Woody Allen Reader is a compilation of his monologues and scenes from his early movies. If you're into that sort of thing, you'll like it. If not, you'll not.
