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Broken Monsters
Aug. 14th, 2018 08:57 amThis year’s Perseids were one of the brightest ever. Exploding across the sky. Look! There’s a cancer cure! Zoom! There’s my Nobel Prize. Whoa! Didja see that one? Wealth beyond my wildest dreams of avarice or world peace? Making wishes is hard!
Not that I actually saw any shooting stars personally since it’s been raining pretty much non-stop here since Saturday.
Next year, I’m going to Prince Edward Island.
###
It wasn’t raining in the morning, so I really should have roused my sorry ass to exercise.
But I did not.
And by the time I was ready to go out, it was pouring.
So I ended up doing very, very little yesterday beside reading Lauren Beukes’s Broken Monsters. Which is a very good. Beukes’s ability to inhabit her characters is well-nigh extraordinary, and of course, she’s writing about urban decay and the genesis of art, both topics near to my heart. These meditations are packed inside what book reviewers are calling a horror novel though I’m not finding it particularly horrific. I’d describe it as splatter noir.
Beukes’s language is amazing, too. I’m about two-thirds of the way through it, but I already know it’s one of those books I’m going to reread instantly just as soon as I’m done reading for plot, just so I can analyze how she pulls off what she pulls off.
Other than Broken Monsters, a very empty day in which I did very little and felt—well. Not guilty exactly. More as though I was taking out money from a savings account though I knew the day was coming—soon!—that I’d regret the withdrawals.
Not that I actually saw any shooting stars personally since it’s been raining pretty much non-stop here since Saturday.
Next year, I’m going to Prince Edward Island.
###
It wasn’t raining in the morning, so I really should have roused my sorry ass to exercise.
But I did not.
And by the time I was ready to go out, it was pouring.
So I ended up doing very, very little yesterday beside reading Lauren Beukes’s Broken Monsters. Which is a very good. Beukes’s ability to inhabit her characters is well-nigh extraordinary, and of course, she’s writing about urban decay and the genesis of art, both topics near to my heart. These meditations are packed inside what book reviewers are calling a horror novel though I’m not finding it particularly horrific. I’d describe it as splatter noir.
Beukes’s language is amazing, too. I’m about two-thirds of the way through it, but I already know it’s one of those books I’m going to reread instantly just as soon as I’m done reading for plot, just so I can analyze how she pulls off what she pulls off.
Other than Broken Monsters, a very empty day in which I did very little and felt—well. Not guilty exactly. More as though I was taking out money from a savings account though I knew the day was coming—soon!—that I’d regret the withdrawals.
