Whenever people insist that I will love something, that I can’t live without it, I stubbornly avoid it. I am instantly repulsed and refuse to budge. My reaction, I know, is some sort of leftover adolescent nonsense that I can’t shake – like the occasional chin zit.

But after years of being brow-beaten, harassed, cajoled, put-upon, proselytized  to,  and arm-twisted, I finally accepted a (free) copy of Eat Pray Love. And, despite all my instincts, I’m reading it.

I realize now that the reason that I abhor most modern books written by women – some strange self-hating weirdness, I always thought – is their inevitably breezy, cheerful and forced “irony.” Read Eat Pray Love if you want to see what I mean. It’s irritating and even unbearable, though (as in this case) sometimes, no matter how unreadable the prose, the story keeps you going. So, as if I was faced with a tablespoon of Castor oil, I’m going to squeeze my eyes shut and choke it down.

Why can’t everyone write like Mary Gaitskill? Hell, why can’t I?


One thought on “Trash

  1. I felt the same way. No matter how often this book caused me to wince and to swear away any book written in the last decade, I was drawn in and kept reading to the very end. I guess you can say one feels the same effect about heroin though.

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