Isatiable , by Gael Greene.
I owe The Program a review of this awful, awful book. I don’t know how I’m going to say “It’s a shit sandwich, people!” without using those exact words, but these are the challenges one faces as a reviewer, I guess. The book is nothing but name-dropping and sexual exploits. She slept with Clint Eastwood and Burt Reynolds. Are you thrilled, compelled and titillated? Me neither.
This lady was a restaurant critic for New York magazine for years; the fact that she seems to be unable to form a coherent sentence appears not to have hindered her. Recipes pepper the main text, which would be great if they flowed into the text organically, or seemed to fall into some sort of rhythm, but they seem to have been included at random. The major political and social events of the sixties and seventies are presented in one long, run-on sentence, while all the men who (purportedly) fawned over her are described in loving if intensely boring detail.
If you ask Gael Greene, she was New York’s most talented, desirable woman. I’m glad she’s happy, but I don’t need to read 400 pages of “I loved their exquisite truffles! And then I slept with the chef!” Yeah, hon. You’re just bursting with talent and integrity. I am almost finished, and I keep hoping for a Sophocles-style punishing of her hubris. It’s all that keeps me going.
Well, that and the fact that I promised five hundred words. Sigh.
Put on your red socks! We’re goin’ out raping today!
I don’t think you’ll remember that one from Playschool, but, guys, seriously? There was a rape scene roughly once every thirty pages in this one. It’s the older, violent-er, sicker cousin of Laurell K’s stuff. And yet… I finished it. I cannot tell you why, except that I don’t want to buy either the new McEwan or the new Chevalier, because I can’t afford it, and… I need to be distracted.
The plot, basically, is about this guy, past lifetimes, infinite possibilites, and rape. I’m not so much bothered by the rape as by the lack of imagination: there’s a shadowy, all powerful cult controlling tv and radio and scads of money, and also the space-time contimuum, and all they can think of to stymie Cawdor is to rape his wife and daughter. Over and over, and then some more, spanning the whole of human history. Um, you guys have the power to — and then — oh, fuck it. I don’t care.
Dear Trevor Hoyle, please hire some porn, take care of a little business, and get back to me when you write characters who think about something other than rape. Also? That whole Thane/Cawdor thing? Not nearly as clever as you think. Oh, and buy a Strunk and White already. Love, Wen
Kiki Strike: Inside the Shadow City by Kirsten Miller
It’s interesting – it’s reading a little like an Artemis Fowl book, actually, but set in New York and with the female protagonist as a tag-along instead of the titular character. Basically? There’s one of those hidden catacomb-y cities everyone, everywhere is so fond of. There’s exploring, and researching, and a team of twelve-year-old Ocean’s Eleven-style prodigies. Fun for the whole family!
