Wednesday, March 02, 2005


Would you like to hear about what I'm reading? No? Too bad.

I'm reading "Music for Torching," by A.M. Homes. I'm only 20 or so pages into it and already I HATE it. Yet another dreary book about suburban anomie. Affectless, soulless, drab. Books like this make me think Tom Wolfe has a point about the state of modern American fiction, though they don't make me want to go read any Tom Wolfe.

The main characters so far are a husband and wife who detest one another, and why shouldn't they? They're detestable. I detest them too.

Here's a sample:

"You're ruining my life," he hisses. He tears at her clothing. He bites her. He does to Elaine what he'd like to do to Henry's date.

"I hate you," Elaine says when Paul is on top of her. "I used to like you, I thought you were cute. But look at you now," she says.

He fucks her, his feet pressing against the armrest, using the sofa for leverage.

She begins to cry. "I'm bored," she says. "I'm so bored, it's not even funny." She digs her fingers into his back; her nails sink into his flesh and stay there.

"I'm unhappy," he says, still humping her. His few remaining strands of hair come unglued and fall forward, hanging in his face. He stops humping her for a moment, flips them back, then starts humping her again. "I'm unbelievably unhappy," he says loudly and begins to cry.

Bejus H. Christ! I HATE these fucking people.

I'm going to finish the book, though. I'll let you know what I think of the whole thing.


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