...which I suppose means, I ought to read it, right? Thankfully, it was a small book. Can you imagine if I'd been hit on the head by Rabelais? Not that I don't enjoy a good read about giants wiping their behinds with a live goose-because I do, but having Rabelais hit you on the noggin would have hurt much more than an old, Sci-Fi paperback.
I've been feeling lousy and wanting to disconnect from the internet for a while now anyway. I can't look at the newspaper anymore, particularly the comment section because it just convinces me that I really do loathe people as much as I claim. Mr. Eat The Blog remains unconvinced that I truly hate people because if I did, I'd be reading Celine. I can still feel contempt for people without reading Death on the Installment Plan, can't I?
"How bad can 1950's science fiction be?" I said to my husband trying not to laugh.
"Pretty bad."
"But the cover says it is a thrilling novel."
We'll see if I get ten pages into it before giving up.
1 comment:
ok I got 61 pages into it and it is dreadful. I don't think dreadful is a strong enough description.
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