Okay, I’ve got my Men In Black-issue neuralizer ready. It’s been programmed to erase all memory of a given literary work from the subject’s brain, replacing it with a message saying “This is a message from yourself. Do not read Book X ever again. In fact, if anyone offers it to you, immediately punch them in the kidney, as they’re not your friend. You’ve already inflicted thsi upon yourself in a fit of masochism, and believe me you don’t want it back in your head. You don’t remember because you wiped your own memory. That’s how bad it is.”
Anyway, I have charged the neuralizer enough so it’ll work all through this weekend. Be careful not to overdo it; you don’t want to give yourself brain cancer or anything.
I’ve already removed de Sade’s Juliette, Philosophy of the Boudoir, and 120 Days of Sodom from my personal history, and I feel better already. Who’s next?
There’s a book that thankfully has almost been neuralized, because I don’t remember the name of it, who wrote it, or when it was released. All I remember from it is one scene. The scene involves a group of children who go all feral on their babysitter and torture her for no reason that I can remember. The scene is so horrific I’m going to put it into spoiler tags.
They have her tied up and on the ground, take a red hot poker and put it through the bottom of her foot up into her leg.Someone here once told me what it was (many years ago) and I forgot again, so it’s not something my brain wants to remember.
I kept waiting for it to live up to the hype. Good thing it’s short, so I didn’t waste too much time. I’d like back the few brain cells that still remember a little bit about it, though.
The first chapter of Twilight, which I downloaded as a free sample on the Kindle, and gagged my way through. Thank og I didn’t just download the whole thing.
I tried rereading the series again, just to see if I could figure out where Auel got so damn full of herself. I think it has to be Mammoth Hunters. Clan was good, and Valley of the Horses was actually very sweet, what with Jondalar showing Ayla what sex was supposed to be. But I ended up giving up halfway through Plains of Passage. I don’t know when she’ll finish the series, and at this point, I really don’t care.
I tend not to finish books I don’t like, but if you can erase from my mind the memory of Star Trek: Reboot, I’d appreciate it. The more I think about it the madder I get.
Also, my big two hates from high school: Billy Budd by Herman Melville, and Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton. I cannot abide “tragedy” that is purely a result of character stupidity that anyone with an IQ greater than a mushroom could have avoided. (While we’re at it, can I also lose all memory of the movie Sommersby, for the same reason?)
Two books, both of which are sequels that managed to spit all over their vastly superior predecessors. The first is * Hannibal *. An utterly repulsive book that incidentally is an example of the superhuman psychopath trope that I hate so much. The second is *Brothers * by William Goldman (which would be the sequel to Marathon Man if it actually existed which I maintain that it doesn’t). Just a totally gratuitous example of an author taking a favorite character and screwing with them for no good reason.