well, mister Martel, i'm just not sure.
although it is exciting to me to be able to see when a novel is a "before the masterpiece" novel.
he's not as sure what he's trying to say here, i feel, as he was with Life of Pi. which was like a shotgun through the temple, in terms of genius and clarity. (if you ask me) (which you didn't.)(but you're reading this blog, so that's your problem, not mine.)
but i'm still only halfway through the book, with Self, that is.
he is a she, but she hasn't done much yet.
sometimes, if this makes any sense, i feel like i don't read enough bad books.
not that there aren't Tonnes (and tonnes and tonnes) out there, but i'm more selective these days, and definitely have a clearly defined reading list that it's hard to muscle in on.
and i'm finally at a point where i put down the hopeless ones without this stubborn dedication to suffer myself through them as in days gone by.
one reaches a point where one has to say "shweethaut, this just ain't long term. we've reached our maximum page count, now take yer signatures and hustle!"
although with some i have faith. faith is nice. i really like faith. it's this strange sweet rarity for me.
and so, onwards with Self.