My mom got me a second hand copy of this immense tome. I skimmed through it in college, but have forgotten most of what I read. Figured I'd give it aMy mom got me a second hand copy of this immense tome. I skimmed through it in college, but have forgotten most of what I read. Figured I'd give it a real read this time. Maybe I'll notice some similarities between Vietnam and Iraq. You think? So far my main impression is that the book smells like cigar smoke, and the cover has been ripped from it's spine. No matter... the pages still have all the words....more
Well, he's no brilliant literary genius, but he gives a pretty good tale. For my taste, the man doesn't know how to end a chapter. They all just kindWell, he's no brilliant literary genius, but he gives a pretty good tale. For my taste, the man doesn't know how to end a chapter. They all just kind of trail off into a brick wall. But he has the inside scoop on what it's been like to live at the Chelsea Hotel in the aftermath of Sid & Nancy. Mostly, irritating seems to be the upshot.
Should you pick this book up I would caution that you will be doomed to hear Rufus Wainwright's version of "Chelsea Hotel No. 2" your head repeatedly as you amble through the chapters of this book. Luckily, I happen to love that song....more
I give up... I can't actually finish the final chapters of this book. I speed read it and that's as good as it's gonna get. Too bad, because I was reaI give up... I can't actually finish the final chapters of this book. I speed read it and that's as good as it's gonna get. Too bad, because I was really riveted by this book for the first 90% of it. I just don't think the author managed to carry that through to the end. Somewhere after the blind Japanese character's chapter I started to get antsy for the book to either ramp it up a notch or to just be over now.
I think the style of writing worked well throughout most of the book but finally was the undoing of the overall story. It climaxed in odd places, and then the tension was lost. There are plenty of punches... plenty of places in the story where I cringed and felt like a truck had hit me... that feeling ought to have been brought to a fever pitch near the end. Although, it occurs to me that maybe he was trying to get the feel of the Z War... how it kind of went on forever and maybe was never going to be over.
Ultimately it's a great read, even though I lost interest at the end. I think he did a great job of researching different cultures around the world and portraying how each of them might fare in a zombie apocalypse. So much was chilling and realistic. I literally could not sleep at night for the three days I was reading the bulk of the story. It had been a long time since a book creeped me out that bad. Maybe when I read HotZone... but that was non-fiction.
I highly recommend this book to anyone who appreciates Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, or I Am Legend.
When I got tired of copying love poems from the Chinese and Japanese into urgent, wretched note cards to lovers who were unattainable (and I'm a geniuWhen I got tired of copying love poems from the Chinese and Japanese into urgent, wretched note cards to lovers who were unattainable (and I'm a genius at finding unattainable characters to pine after)... that's when I turned to Pablo Neruda. He's even better than Asian poets at crafting throbbing, passionate, wounded phrases of affection:
I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers; thanks to your love a certain solid fragrence risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
No one can stop the river of your hands, your eyes and their sleepiness, my dearest. You are the trembling of time, which passes between the vertical light and the darkening sky.
From the stormy archipelagoes I brought my windy accordian, waves of crazy rain, the habitual slowness of natural things: they made up my wild heart.
Imagine for a moment being the unsuspecting recipient of such transcribed scribblings. You thought you were just getting a nice shag, and now you're getting Neruda by notecard, shoved into the mail slot of your door, or left under your windshield wiper at the parking garage. At least I never called in the middle of the night and left Neruda recitations on the answering machine. Okay, maybe I did once. But there had been a great deal of tequila involved.
Not everything he wrote was tortured. Some of it was just beautiful:
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;...
...so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
because love cannot always fly without resting, our lives return to the wall, to the rocks of the sea: our kisses head back home where they belong.
By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness
Luckily I got over the phase where I copied tragic poetry into notecards to express my unrequited passions. Now I've moved on to mix CDs. I swear, I'm a caricature even of myself. Emo mommy. Pardon me while I don a pirate blouse and walk moodily across the moors on a stormy day.