I picture the author.. — 2 years ago
as an emo-punk with fake black hair, a thesaurus and too much eyeliner. This was the most overly romanticized sucide fantasy that I have ever read.
Death could not have alluded to sex more prominently if the main character had fucked the grim reaper. I was pretty tired by the end of this book just from wading through all of the delusion. If I could say one thing to the author, it would be
“Put up or shut-up.”
It’s obvious that there is some deep-seated suidide fantasy going on and this book was her way of working through it. Damn though! This kind of literature is supposed to be theraputic and I have known for ages that I feel better about hard times if I write about them. I just don’t think that it should have become an award-nominated novel open for public consumption. I never got that ‘Yes, this author understands me!’ kind of feeling that non-judgemental relations of suicide literature are ‘supposed’ to have. All that I came away with was:
a. Wow, that author needs to work through some stuff
and
b. Wow, literature that proudly boasts Canadiana is SO pretentious and dull.
Come on Canada, let’s get some fresh talent flowing. This is embarrassing.
