5 Stars
That awkward moment when you’re about to fangirl all over a book that nearly everyone else will probably hate and you know you might get trolled AGAIN (because once wasn’t e-freakin’-nuff) about enjoying reading a book about a pedophile (and this time dude really is a pedophile) . . . .
You’re probably asking yourself . . .
“What’s it about?”
Well, let’s just have Rebekah speak for herself, shall we?
“It’s about a one-time famous writer who finds herself unable to write. So she starts writing letters to Arthur Weeman, pretending to be a thirteen-year-old-girl and through these letters she deals with something bad that happened to her when she was almost thirteen and . . .”
Sounds like a real page turner, huh? Also probably sounds like Rebekah is some seriously damaged goods, right? I’m not exactly sure how many people would agree with the first statement. For me it was, but I am a super fan of all things dark and grisly – especially when those things somehow manage to end up being black comedy brilliance. As for the second statement? Nope . . . .
And good lord did I love reading everything about her. From her morning ritual . . . .
To an unlikely friendship/nurse’s aide position/roommate status with an elderly woman who often times chose to hang out with her other friends . . . .
To a voyeuristic obsession with a famous director . . . .
(Yes, she sees EXACTLY what you would expect to seeWoody Allen Arthur Weeman doing when he thinks no one is looking.)
At this point if you aren’t real familiar with me you might be asking . . .
That would be an affirmative. It’s hard to ignore writing that jumps off the page at you like this one has, though . . . .
“In the end we Y.G.s don’t grow up to be over-the-hill Lolitas – sexless and worn and fat with child – we simply turn into the very thing that had once lusted after us.
Lolita in the end becomes Humbert Humbert.
And I had turned my back on Alice to find myself seeing things through Arthur Weeman’s eyes. I, like all Y.G.s everywhere, had become, to my shock and horror, nothing more than a little dirty old man.”
This is currently on ONE friend’s TBR. I’d prefer to keep it that way because I wouldn’t expect anyone else to enjoy it anyway and I’ll flat out say there’s at least one person out there who will get automatically defriended if all of a sudden they choose to read this book no one has ever heard of, but that would be soooooo easy to hate review.
As for the friend who put it on my radar? I’m eternally grateful to you, HFK, and I’ll gladly chip in for any therapy you might need since you started this with the idea it would be a light chick-lit type of read like Bridget Jones’ Diary only to discover something very different.
And to you, Jennifer Belle, I think I'm in love . . . .
You’re probably asking yourself . . .
“What’s it about?”
Well, let’s just have Rebekah speak for herself, shall we?
“It’s about a one-time famous writer who finds herself unable to write. So she starts writing letters to Arthur Weeman, pretending to be a thirteen-year-old-girl and through these letters she deals with something bad that happened to her when she was almost thirteen and . . .”
Sounds like a real page turner, huh? Also probably sounds like Rebekah is some seriously damaged goods, right? I’m not exactly sure how many people would agree with the first statement. For me it was, but I am a super fan of all things dark and grisly – especially when those things somehow manage to end up being black comedy brilliance. As for the second statement? Nope . . . .
And good lord did I love reading everything about her. From her morning ritual . . . .
To an unlikely friendship/nurse’s aide position/roommate status with an elderly woman who often times chose to hang out with her other friends . . . .
To a voyeuristic obsession with a famous director . . . .
(Yes, she sees EXACTLY what you would expect to see
At this point if you aren’t real familiar with me you might be asking . . .
That would be an affirmative. It’s hard to ignore writing that jumps off the page at you like this one has, though . . . .
“In the end we Y.G.s don’t grow up to be over-the-hill Lolitas – sexless and worn and fat with child – we simply turn into the very thing that had once lusted after us.
Lolita in the end becomes Humbert Humbert.
And I had turned my back on Alice to find myself seeing things through Arthur Weeman’s eyes. I, like all Y.G.s everywhere, had become, to my shock and horror, nothing more than a little dirty old man.”
This is currently on ONE friend’s TBR. I’d prefer to keep it that way because I wouldn’t expect anyone else to enjoy it anyway and I’ll flat out say there’s at least one person out there who will get automatically defriended if all of a sudden they choose to read this book no one has ever heard of, but that would be soooooo easy to hate review.
As for the friend who put it on my radar? I’m eternally grateful to you, HFK, and I’ll gladly chip in for any therapy you might need since you started this with the idea it would be a light chick-lit type of read like Bridget Jones’ Diary only to discover something very different.
And to you, Jennifer Belle, I think I'm in love . . . .
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