"Novels so often provide an anodyne and not an antidote, glide one into torpid slumbers instead of rousing one with a burning brand." - Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
My friend Ara intentionally reads books that are awful and blogs about them. For the longest time I would read only books I thought I would like, and generally my predictions were accurate, with a few exceptions such as Twilight, Requiem: Poems from the Terezin Ghetto, and The Lightning Thief. But now, in order to season myself as the amateur critic that I am, I chose a poorly-reviewed book from Printz (Forbidden by Tabitha Suzuma). It's about a brother and sister who fall in love, which in itself is odd. Could be a good book (not too far yet), but I only hope to whatever gods may or may not exist that it doesn't encourage incest. I still hope to read some other of the well-liked ones before this fall when endings are spoiled, but if I love everything I read, then what kind of critic am I? A person once told me I couldn't critique stuff properly. Of course the bloke was wrong, because he hardly enjoys any books and anyone who's a bit less cynical is apparently a softy.
If I've made any typos and left them, you must excuse me: I cut open my left thumb and index finger and am wearing plasters at the moment, which makes it hard to type.
Love,
Lewis
