British 'literature' or anything for me long ago stopped existing.
Especially when one cannot even share witha librarian as i have attempted many times
""Rachel's Mars Room... not really my kind of tale..
but unlike your confected vulnerability,, saccahrine fake
compulsory
sympathy
she doesn't lace her genius tome with any kind of pity
And thus we learn..i learned from her book.
Just how perfectly she in fact gets her deplorables
and violent self castratin' poor lost
balls.
Never mind proves sexism still rife
Reading.. surely...nohhh....she couldnt do THAT
but its rather beautiful....
the bits shes used..italicised chapter-front
like ehh... dont look it up just go with her art
from chapter start
The great magnificent modern day almost
'road trip' just one long tome of gripping poetry
But the end...
The light .. searching out her heroine
The end. Of course you know what happemnned even if she never tells us what to think
Of her end.
MY story is the exact opposite
Yanks can only have it endin' all in tears
And machinery
gunnin' her into
as good as one of the Unabomber's victims, dead
No man - male creator,
never ever ever, not for a blink of her dyin' eye
would be allowed to copyist, word for word
fold in, include... in celebratory honourification
At least 10 thousand of the ultimate "human" "hater"
famous gunman, his line extermination
into her rather fabulous book. And even be nominated for a friggin Booker
she should have got
