If I wrote. Wrote. About a book in the style of its prose. It would
A book that made me hibernate, devour. And the words rushed through me like bullets. No sleep coffee sip dirty hair repeat. Hangover – from the wine or from the late night crusted eyes sleepy reading.
So. Much. Sex. A girl at drama school – the disturbed twin of Eleanor Catton’s Rehearsal. If you haven’t, go read that too.
And what’s strange, but not so if you consider the rest, is there are no names. No names until he utters ‘i love you’ and like magic those words bring into being. the previously nameless character who’s we now know is Eily. Did she not exist before? Does being the object of (the) love (of a male) make her an individual. Or. In my attempt at sense in hearing this voice did I miss her name from the start? And is this art?
Fucking and fucked (up) that word fuck that can mean so much.
the reaction to pain
the word that you moan
when the cunt meets the cock or the tongue or the hand
verb noun adjective adverb
And this book has it all.