Friday, June 29, 2012

The Last Werewolf Deliberation

I've mentioned that I've been plenty brain-fried here lately. It seems to be getting better by the day (hallelujah!) but my reading has still been super slow in the meantime. In the name of reading what I want, when I want, I have another admission.

I re-read Fifty Shades last week. Because I could. not. read. anything of substance. So there. I've said it. The air is clear. I'm reading what I want, when I want. Booyah! I practice what I preach! 

But in the name of moving on to bigger and better (and less shittily written) books, I've been contemplating what would get my reading mojo going. The winner is...


If last year was the year of literary fiction for me, this year is the year of genre lusciousness. Give me romance, give me sf, give me fantasy, give me historical. Nothing is off limits: BDSM, time travel, witches, and werewolves, and goblins, OH MY!

I hadn't really any interest in reading this one until I had a bored afternoon to ruminate and then I remembered that one (all?) of the Bookrageous podcasters read it eons ago, and I thought, "Hmm, brutality and philosophy and some sensational sex? Why not!" 

I'm not very far in, but one thing was achingly obvious from the beginning -- Duncan has an interesting style. The cadence of the writing was almost offputting  in the first ten pages, but now that I'm settling in with Jake Marlowe, I kinda dig it. Although, at times it strikes me that this book vacillates between oozy pretension and utter beautifulness. 

Wanna see?
It was still snowing when I stepped out into the street. Vehicular traffic was poignantly stupefied and Earl's Court Underground was closed. For a moment I stood adjusting to the air's fierce innocence. (14)
Fiercly innocent air? That makes me think Glen Duncan is a writerly self-gratifier. But then bits like this make me reconsider:
Adrenaline isn't interested in ennui. Adrenaline floods, regardless, in my state not just the human fibres but lupine leftovers too, those creature dregs that hadn't fully conceded transformation. (15)
I love odd analogies and eye-opening, fearless prose, but there is also a sense of get-to-itiveness that I admire. The second passage is an example of this. The first passage is a waste of words.

And that's it. I'm going to finish up The Secret Garden over the next couple of days and see if I can become engrossed in The Last Werewolf. Off to a decent start, I'd say!

What are you reading? Anything that leans toward one particular genre or another?

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