2.03.2006
Ver-crappin'-onica
When you're me, you pay close attention to The New York Times best books list. Why? Well, you're a snob who never finished a PhD, became a writer, or had sex with someone who did, that's why. This year, however, the NYT did me wrong in the form of Veronica.
I freely admit that I complain a lot about the books I read, mostly out of spleen. This book, however, is the real deal. Utter crap. Circuitous, masturbatory, navel-gazing former-model with hepatitus shit. I walked into work the other day and said, "I'm reading a book that I hate." My co-worker replied that she, too, was reading a book she hated. The book? Veronica.
I freely admit that I complain a lot about the books I read, mostly out of spleen. This book, however, is the real deal. Utter crap. Circuitous, masturbatory, navel-gazing former-model with hepatitus shit. I walked into work the other day and said, "I'm reading a book that I hate." My co-worker replied that she, too, was reading a book she hated. The book? Veronica.
