Friday, November 16, 2007

Dr. Mukti by Will Self

Gareth slipped the slim selection of short stories into his bag, and it felt like his whole life had been a depressing series of events designed entirely to make him miserable. Boredom took a seat next to him, and stared slack-jawed through the window. If he'd been a character in the book he'd just perused, he'd have gone mad by now, and something awful, violently virulent would be about to happen but not before he'd had some utterly empty sex with someone for whom he no longer had feelings.

Slightly absurd situations plodded along next to him, well described in beautiful prose, like catwalk models asked about the latest trends in civil engineering. A wonder to look at, but lacking in compelling, competent, components. Artful alliteration danced over the bones of plots that never had any meat.

In short, the stories depressed me, the characters annoyed me, but Will Self sure can write purdy words.


  1. So can you, mister. When are you going to write something longer?

  2. I was trying to copy Will Self's style, but I think I need a bit more practice.

    I write the occasional snippet over at ficlets, but nothing very long. I can never seem to get the time. This review was written on my phone on the train home (because I had no book to read).