So, I like Magic Realism. A lot. This book isn't magic realism but I felt the need to emphasize that point, mainly so you'll understand that I have no problem suspending my disbelief, but there comes a point when you just can't suspend it any more because your arms are tired and you're shouting "oh for fuck's sake, come on!" and your eyes have popped out of their sockets from all the rolling they've been doing.

So there seems to be this modern movement in literature that could be called Annoying Randomism. I'm sure there's a literary term out there but since I'm an outsider and not an intellectual in the least I'm going to call it as I see it. I'm sure I could list several criteria for Annoying Randomism but it all boils down to this: it seems like it was pulled out of the author's ass and covered up with flowery prose. similar to that feeling when you know someone is lying to you but they're trying so hard that on the inside you just can't get over it and you have to give them credit for trying but damned if you don't want to call them on it, but you won't because it's just too much man, too much!

I get it. We don't want to grow up. I don't want to grow up. I want a TMX Elmo for crying outside. No one wants to grow up and our generation is the first to see just how responsible we can be without ever having to grow up. My biggest issue with this book is that all the stories are told from a child/young adult perspective, but I haven't met a single young person with language skills of that caliber.

Labels: books