I know, I = Eyore lately, and I need to change out of my grumpy pants. I am trying to will myself into having loved this book. Willllllllllllllllllllllll it! It is smart! It is funny! IT HAS MY NAME IN IT A BRAZILLION TIMES!!! And apparently Martin Amis is Hot Shit (right? Maybe. What do I know? Except that he’s the son of Kingsley Amis, who actually was Hot Shit).
And probably loads of you love it, or will love it if you ignore me and go read it (it’s short[ish]!), and if I weren’t me and I had read it, I’d totally recommend it to me. And maybe I’ve burned myself out on this sort of hip, self-aware fiction and just need to cleanse my palate with something ripping (The Likeness cries out to me from the shelves).
And my one creative writing prof (not you, Andrea!) would have loved it because it’s ‘gritty’ and ‘raw’ (read: full of sex and dotted liberally with swears), but it was also sweet and clever and made a deft grab for my heartstrings.
BUT MY HEARTSTRINGS WERE NOT FOR THE HAVING! I believe they had a headache.
ANYways, I have long ceased to say anything of import. PLEASE if you have reviewed The Rachel Papers, let me know in the comments and I will stick your review in here. Other voices must speak.
I will renege on my usual caterpillars due to my raging ambivalence, and suggest you all go eat something crispy.