I'm reading the newest book by a writer singled out some years ago as the new Golden Boy of literature. As near as I can tell, it's because he can write well and also has very good hair and excellent eyeglasses. The writing well part is the most important, of course.
So, the latest book. Very good. Really moves along, mostly because I'm listening to it in the car (1 1/2 town days and a couple of trips to Foodland), and it does seem to roll by at a steady, cruise-control-regulated fifty miles an hour. Hey, you try living on a small island. And it's good. Really. It's good.
And I'm reasonably sure something will eventually happen. Something was inferred in the first paragraph. That was a couple of hours ago. So somewhere in the next thirty-odd hours something will happen. And until it does, I shall enjoy the really very good writing.
Written in response to a criticism of a young writer for having a fixation on sex and violence in his writing. Surely some doesn't hurt....
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