Thomas Moore is laughing at you, sry2say
Feb. 17th, 2008 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chocolate_chipI finally finished reading Paul Clifford, the book that no one knows, but everyone's heard of. (It's the one that starts, "It was a dark and stormy night.") When Mark Twain made his rants about brevity of writing, I think that this was the book he had in mind. Though the author makes some very good points about the criminal justice system, and there's one excellent pun ("make up for my absence with my presents") the whole thing is the very embodiment of tl;dr. My particularly favorite quote:
JUST SAY SHEEP, DAMMIT.
It's actually considered by many to be one of the worst books ever published, and the horrible prose isn't helped by the author's enormous ego. At one point, he interrupts the story to rant for 60 lines about how Thomas Moore was full of shit on some point or other, and it's just like, dude, who the fuck do you think you are?? Then at the end, he's like, "Now that I've blown your mind with my amazing plot twists, I'll explain everything to you," when I had guessed the big surprise about 1/3 of the way in. Yeah, whatever there, Mr. "Let's End This Sentence With 168 Exclamation Points" Bulwer-Lytton.
In case you're wondering why I bothered to read the whole thing, the main reason is because I was in serious need of a hardcore English workout. But also because I hate myself. But now that it's out of the way, I can read about gay Arthurian knights! \o/ Yay!
On the opposite side of the stream there is a range of steep hills, celebrated for nothing more romantic than their property of imparting to the flocks that browse upon that short and seemingly stinted herbage a flavour peculiarly grateful to the lovers of that pastoral animal which changes its name into mutton after its decease. Upon these hills the vestige of human habitation is not visible; and at times, when no boat defaces the lonely smoothness of the river, and the evening has stilled the sounds of labour and of life, we know few scenes so utterly tranquil, so steeped in quiet, as that which is presented by the old, quaint-fashioned house and its antique grounds,--the smooth lawn, the silent, and (to speak truly, though disparagingly) the somewhat sluggish river, together with the large hills (to which we know, from simple though metaphysical causes, how entire an idea of quiet and immovability peculiarly attaches itself), and the white flocks,--those most peaceful of God's creatures,--that in fleecy clusters stud the ascent.
JUST SAY SHEEP, DAMMIT.
It's actually considered by many to be one of the worst books ever published, and the horrible prose isn't helped by the author's enormous ego. At one point, he interrupts the story to rant for 60 lines about how Thomas Moore was full of shit on some point or other, and it's just like, dude, who the fuck do you think you are?? Then at the end, he's like, "Now that I've blown your mind with my amazing plot twists, I'll explain everything to you," when I had guessed the big surprise about 1/3 of the way in. Yeah, whatever there, Mr. "Let's End This Sentence With 168 Exclamation Points" Bulwer-Lytton.
In case you're wondering why I bothered to read the whole thing, the main reason is because I was in serious need of a hardcore English workout. But also because I hate myself. But now that it's out of the way, I can read about gay Arthurian knights! \o/ Yay!
