A Good Imagination and a Pile of Junk

That’s something I blurted about 22 hours ago in the middle of Teri’s book, The Last Bridge.

It’s impossible to talk too much about it without sounding like a cheeseball reviewer, so Ill try and pick the few things I think my readers here will understand, given the source.

- It would never have occurred to me to pick up The Last Bridge but that Teri’s a friend. The cover description just doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I would be interested in.
- Once I picked it up it never occurred to me to put it down. It holds a place with some strange company in the “not move even to go to the bathroom until it’s done” list (including most Christopher Moore and, oddly, Siddhartha.) And it wasn’t a one-sitting read because it was short or easy.
- It’s a very hard read and I don’t mean in the Umberto Eco sense. In fact I physically flinched from the page more than once.

I’m going to have to go back and read it again a time or two soon. It gave me more to think about than I expected and now, exactly 24 hours after I started reading it, enough of the details have faded from my memory that I fear I remember less than I think I do.

Anyway enough of this tripe.

Pick it up and read it.

I know if I look back over about 4000 posts I’ll come across this again. But seeing as how I haven’t written a conceptual level search engine for this db yet, it might as well be gone for good.

This bizarre panic feeling that if I commit to doing ANYthing that I’m missing not only “something” else, but EVERYTHING else.

The logical fallacy built in to “for any thing I’m doing there are a thousand things being left behind” thwarts me at every turn.

It’s bloody awful.