![]() ![]() I like what I like and I feel no need to explain myself. When I use the word “trashy” I’m not being derisive. Like the cliché that I am, I signed up at the beginning of the year and yet I haven’t actually gone. I’m beginning to suspect my recent trashy-lit reading spree is a way to avoid going to the gym. ![]() Surely I can find a more edifying use of my free time. (I mean that figuratively I don’t really eat chocolates.) So much so that when I take stock of the amount of “trashy” lit I consume in a week, I find it a little disconcerting. I love genre fiction and, as of late, I’ve been devouring romance novels and frothy chick-lits like chocolates. One glance at my Goodreads page will confirm that. If the above excerpt from Gariel’s Inferno isn’t the clunkiest, most contrived paragraphs you’ve ever read in your life, you have to tell me what books you’ve been reading. Julia thought about this and hoped for her friend’s sake that the Hardy novel approximating the Rachel Clark experience was more Mayor of Casterbridge than Tess of the D’Urbervilles or, God forbid, Jude the Obscure. ![]() “Yes, because I have the feeling there are elements of Thomas Hardy lurking below the surface. ![]() We’re a twisted mix of Arthur Miller and John Steinbeck, with a bit of Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy thrown in. “My family is like a Dickensian novel, Julia. ![]()
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