i hate it when the back of a book is covered with glowing praise. it makes me think ‘oh yeah?’ or, ‘you think you’re good, don’t you, book?’

i’ve read recently: the time travellers wife, on chesil beach, after the quake, & the road.

all of them had some kind of praise on them. ‘the road’ just had an awful lot. sure it’s good. but i had to find fault. fault. like, some of the sentences, they just bashed me with their hemingwayesque brusqueness. oh they did. sentences. the road before us. grey skies. you know what i mean.

i should be a book-reviewer. the trammels of richatic book parcels. grey dawn. see.

i’ll be back with more profound statements later.