As you may have noticed there is a large gap between this post today and my last entry. There is a very good reason for that. Well, I mean, I have a good sounding excuse at least. The excuse I have is the 'cock-blocking book'. That's right, I totally coined that phrase. Feel free to use it and send me the royalties. What it means is this:
Cock-blocking book: A book that is so difficult to read that you are unable to finish it (despite a great need/desire to, IE. I can't let this book beat me!), move on to another book and may consider a full memory erase just to get the hell on with your life.
It is the worst possible thing that can happen on a literary level. It burns all desire to read from your brain. It makes you think you are broken beyond repair, like books are a contagion and you are infected with stupid. It makes you feel like you have been ambushed by the thing you trusted most.
This is not the first time this happened to me. I have always loved reading. Books will be your friend even when the rest of the world won't. Except when they aren't. The first time I felt this feeling was with a notoriously verbose series. You may agree or you may find it appalling, but Lord of the Rings is the biggest waste of paper I have ever read. I do not care who is related to whom or what adventure they went on when they were young hobbits or where the hell you got your fireworks. I DO NOT CARE. I loved the Hobbit and all I wanted was a follow up with dragons, killing and AWESOMENESS. I am sorry, but if you get 60 pages deep and all you know is how everyone is related to everyone else then it is NOT GOING TO BE READ BY ME.
After that traumatic event I found it difficult to trust a book again. It was then that I found Philip K Dick. He saved me. He came to me in my hour of need and gave me what I required. I had wubs, electric ants and simulacrum. And all was right with the world. I had another close call with Bram Stoker's Dracula (don't even get me started) but again, Dick was there for me. And yes, I know how that sounds.
Back to my point. I was doing so well with my book a week. I was up to about 12 and going strong, when I started this novel:
It is unassuming. It is pure evil. I love novels and stories that depict the end of the world as we know it, whether it be zombies or, as is this case, a world wide drought. Or so I thought. I struggled through the part one of the book. The characters are hollow and unlikable, I didn't really care for their existence at all. It gets worse. The first chapter is regarding the slow decline of the world, where the deserts grow and the resources have been slowly shrinking away until it culminates in a frenzy for the remaining resources.
Part two I know very little about. Mostly because it is the most horrid wretch of a story I have ever read. The characters are even more empty and I find myself just wishing they would die so the story would at least end. I got about twenty pages in before it completely broke me. It had already taken me 3 weeks to get that far, I couldn't go on.
This was months ago now and I have only just started to heal, it took me that long to realise what I needed. I needed Mercer, conspiracy theories and pinball machines that fight back. Give me time, but hopefully with Philip K Dick's help I will get back on track.
It is going to be a freaking long time before I trust another author I have never read before. Thanks Ballard, you jerk.
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| 1 out of 5 stars. Save yourself, DO NOT READ. Not for the weak. |
