Rohinton Mistry will always have my undying loyalty for having battered my heart SO HARD with A Fine Balance (seriously, you want to weep into your bourbon? Crack that massive bastard). So, Rohinton, I say this with all kinds of love.
The Scream is some weird-ass shit.
It’s what they’re calling ‘mixed media’ these days and what used to be called ‘kid’s books,’ that is, ‘with pictures.’ Except…
Ok, that’s Edvard Munsch and not Tony Urquhart, obvs. But the illustrations are all ‘brightly-colored screaming faces’ and ‘brightly-colored bottles of urine’ and ‘brightly-colored rabies’ and they kind of look like this. But with extra creeper.
And it’s only 35 pages long, and almost half of those are pictures, so I had to go back and read it again because I have never been so WFT’d. So there’s this old man, right? And his children have shunted him to the front room because he’s getting so old, and all he does all day is sit around and be old and listen to his joints creak and use rull big words (random sampling: horripilating, caliginous, hypogean, inspissated) and then one night his sleep is broken by a scream (see: title).
And that’s kind of if! But it’s kind of brilliant! I totally just want to type the whole thing out for you, so that you can read it and be all *head tilt* and I’ll be all, I know! But then you’d miss out on all the flying cockroaches, and I couldn’t do that to you. Plus, they’d sue my ass off, and I need that ass for sitting and for looking good in jeans.
SO! Go poke through this bad boy in the bookstore, and if you likey, you buyey. I can’t even pass judgement on it, it’s like trying to critique an act of Nature.
So, a single plum floating in perfume served in a man’s hat?
PS This book was FF (For Free, from the Random House)