Atlas Shrugged was fiction used to promote the propaganda of Objectivism.  So it was weird to read My Year of Meats, which was fiction used to promote the propaganda of the dangers of American meat processing.  Because I agree with what she was saying and respect it.  So it made me enjoy it?  But at the same time, I’m still getting beaten over the head with an obvious message.  So it was baffling.

Dexter the television series and Dexter the book series veered apart from one another after season one, and technically during.  The books have always been a little overly poetic, a little florid and mincing, but that’s okay.  After the TV show shat the bed and then rolled facefirst in it and then started singing Zippidy-Doody in brownface, Lindsay had a unique opportunity to right the wronged.  And he did.  Kinda.  Was the ending satisfying?  Yee-ah? Does it leave potential for more?  Ma-aybe?  Still.  Better than a […]

This is my second Cormy Mac, so if I had to sum him up, I’d say BLEAK.  This one is like some kind of rambling Steinbeck that fell out of someone’s backpocket into the sluice grate of the slaughterhouse.  After repeated scalps being peeled from still screaming victims, and endless infants being cracked open like decorative gourds, and people’s brains spattering cacti, you just get desensitized. Which I guess is the point.  But jeezum crow.  What a slog to get there.

One thing leads to a-nuuuuuuuu-ther.  This second book takes place several decades after the first one.  Allanon seeks an Ohmsford for a quest.  Seemingly simple enough.  But like when you give a mouse a cookie, he wants a glass of milk.  When you tell Wil Ohmsford he just has just one quest, it becomes seventeen quests.  At least the epic battle in this one is pretty badass.