Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Recently I got stuck in a situation where I was desperate for a book to read. I needed it to see me through a boring night where I had to be up through the wee hours. I can't remember a time where I've had a book in hand that's been as poorly researched and as poorly written.

I finished the poor novel and then retreated back to Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin once I got home again. Right off the top I felt like I'd come home to a much different class of writing with this gem:

"She died before I was born, but from what I've heard she was as smooth as silk and as cool as a cucumber, but with a will like a bone saw."

With that, I felt like I was safely back in the arms of brilliant craftsmanship.

I've been fielding images of the conviction of a bone saw ever since.

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