Friday, May 21, 2004
Next up was Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler, which I happily inherited from a previous roommate. I had nearly bought it myself when it first came out because of the back summary and all the rave reviews and blurbs on the cover. Boy am I ever glad I didn't. It wasn't.. horrible, exactly. But I certainly didn't like it. It's a group of loosely connected short stories (and we know how much I don't love short stories) and while I did enjoy a couple of them, some were.. I want to say insulting, but I'm not really sure if that's exactly the word I want. They weren't unsettling, really. Not like J. T. Leroy or anything. I guess I just balked at the slight whiff of misogyny that came from some of them. It was like the author didn't actually know any real women and was just writing objects with boobs. By the end I knew that Patrick was the nominal villain of the book, but the story that features him as the main character gives no indication of that. I finished it because the ones I liked were spaced far enough apart to give me hope there would be another one and there were bits and pieces of even the ones I disliked that were beautiful; phrases here and there that delighted me and showed the author is clearly talented. Not my bag though.
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