I’m dreading this but it has to be done.
There are too many ‘least favourites’ to name but I will draw your attention to two books.
The Ghosts Of Sleath by James Herbert will always hold a very special place in my heart. Not because I liked it, oh hell no! I absolutely hated it; I found it torturous to read. Ironically I feel very indebted to this novel, simply because it ignited a spark and woke up the dormant writer in me.
As I read it, it made me sigh with frustration so many times I just thought (without trying to sound arrogant) I’m sure I can do better than this. And that’s when I picked up a pen and paper, 8 years after squashing my dream of being a journalist. So the Ghosts Of Sleath actually inspired me but unfortunately not in a way the author would have hoped.
So strange, yet so true.
Another book I was terribly disappointed with was one I read recently: Disgrace by JM Coetzee.
Maybe it’s because I feel embarrassed after I bigged him up in one of my previous posts that my disillusionment with this book is more pronounced. The fact that it was a Booker Prize winner makes it worse. Having read this novella, I now have some doubts as to the credibility of the Booker Prize.
Anyways, award-winning or not, I didn’t learn a bloody thing from this book, apart from the fact that if you’re a young woman in South Africa, living alone on an isolated farm in the middle of nowhere with very little security is not exactly the smartest thing to do. You don’t need someone from Mensa to tell you this.
The ending was also a big letdown. That’s if you can call it an ending. I kept flipping and turning the last few pages, wondering what happened to the rest of the book.
Okay I think I’ll stop ranting now. I have now made my peace with Disgrace. I look forward to Monday’s post. Laughter, they say, is always the best medicine.