Saturday, June 18, 2011

It was . . .

. . . a dark and stormy night.

Well, not really.

That's just an illustration of the type of prose in a book that I'm trying to read, and I may not succeed.

In the space of one page, I have read:

I could carry on his war against the old-money snobbery of this town that for years had dulled the lacquer of his magnificent achievement.
. . . and so stepped back in time, my childhood around me like broken glass.
I saw it all, unyellowed by time; then I blinked and it was gone, ashes in a sudden wind.
I am in simile/metaphor hell.

I may not survive.