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I haven't worked on History Lessons III in several days, thanks to the seductive thrall of a good book. While perusing the latest issue of Fangoria in search of DVD reviews, I stumbled across a book review of The Ruins by Scott Smith. They touted it as one of the best suspense/horror novels of the new millennium. I was skeptical since book reviews and front cover blurbs are rife with hyperbole and quotes taken out of context, like those one-word movie reviews plastered on TV ads.
"Compelling," they trumpet, but what they leave out is the rest of the sentence, which reads, "Compelling as a cockroach taking a dump underneath the Long Island Expressway."
Then Stephen King sang its praises, and my curiosity was piqued. I wasn't entirely sold, mind, because he's also endorsed Bentley Little, who's as wholesome and satisfying as a brick shit. But when I couldn't find the Caitlin R. Kiernan novel![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stellaluna_ recommended(it's out of print, by the by, in case anyone else was looking. Woe.), I picked it up.
And I'm not sorry. I haven't devoured a book with such mindless gusto since I was a bored, stationary kid with three options for stimulation: nose-mining, masturbation, or reading(God, could you imagine that as an endorsement blurb on the front of a book?) Since reading was the only one of the three I could do in public, I did a lot of it. A metric fuckton, to be precise. I ruined my eyes in tribute to the written word. Or maybe the old wives' tale of hairy palms and ruined eyes is true. I did a lot of that, too.
The Ruins is fantastic, utterly mesmerizing. I read it in twelve hours. It is a brilliant mindfuck. It should not, however, be read by the squeamish.
After reading it, I've decided not to see the movie adaptation, which would undoubtedly dilute rich, three-dimensional characters into whiny, emo, grating twenty-somethings in ball huggers and bikini tops.
"Compelling," they trumpet, but what they leave out is the rest of the sentence, which reads, "Compelling as a cockroach taking a dump underneath the Long Island Expressway."
Then Stephen King sang its praises, and my curiosity was piqued. I wasn't entirely sold, mind, because he's also endorsed Bentley Little, who's as wholesome and satisfying as a brick shit. But when I couldn't find the Caitlin R. Kiernan novel
stellaluna_ recommended(it's out of print, by the by, in case anyone else was looking. Woe.), I picked it up.And I'm not sorry. I haven't devoured a book with such mindless gusto since I was a bored, stationary kid with three options for stimulation: nose-mining, masturbation, or reading(God, could you imagine that as an endorsement blurb on the front of a book?) Since reading was the only one of the three I could do in public, I did a lot of it. A metric fuckton, to be precise. I ruined my eyes in tribute to the written word. Or maybe the old wives' tale of hairy palms and ruined eyes is true. I did a lot of that, too.
The Ruins is fantastic, utterly mesmerizing. I read it in twelve hours. It is a brilliant mindfuck. It should not, however, be read by the squeamish.
After reading it, I've decided not to see the movie adaptation, which would undoubtedly dilute rich, three-dimensional characters into whiny, emo, grating twenty-somethings in ball huggers and bikini tops.
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