NOTE: So, the computer I started this on contracted a virus while writing, so if I start advertising porn or diet pills whatever, that's the virus, there. As much as I love advertising both those things and all... You know. It's just how I roll, guys.
Man, I finished The Autocracy of Mr Parham, and I don't even feeling like recording passages and notes and stuff. Not just because it's upstairs (god forbid) or because I'm mildly allergic to it... though that second one kind of contributes.... But it was a muddle. HG Wells, come on! Honestly, the end is (SPOILER!) the twist, the hackneyed, "oh hey guys, it was a vivid dream... that everyone else had." There's a reason people don't know this one. Since I'm so great at summarizing books I less than like:
"Hi I'm Mr Parham and I met this guy who is my exact opposite and kind of a jerk but I'll hang out with him for some reason and I hate seances but I'll go to this what so I can remain close to the guy I hate. Oh, look, this ghost is really a Martian. Oh cool, WW2. Oh wait, bad idea, never mind oh no they're gonna kill me--oh. Good morning! Just a dream. Good thing."
Gahhh. But honestly, the dream thing didn't even bother me, because I had gotten so detached and befuddled by that point. By then, I was like "This has to be a dream, HG Wells is just on opium now." Or whatever the drug of choice was in the 20's/30's. I stopped following when the ghost at the seance announced he was a Martian and was going to mess with England, and... What happened to him? I don't even know. Did he purposely try to start WW2? He seemed sinister, but gawwww. Oh, that was a joke for all zero people who read this book.
HG Wells, it's not you, it's me. Oh wait, it's totally you. We need some time apart, till I can find my copy of The Time Machine and maybe love you again.
One thing I did like was when the guy Parham hates questioned him about art. He didn't get what made a painting of a woman art and not a dirty picture, and vice versa. And you know what, samesies. I get incredibly embarrassed when I see naked art of either gender in galleries. I mean, what? Maybe my norms are different from your average gallery-goer, but I see a naked person and I'm not like oh, look at those beautiful brush strokes! I'm like put on your toga, lady. I'm shy, I guess. Or I'm not 'artsy' enough, which is the truth. Sure, I can draw and all, but go on. Try explaining art to me. Why this is, and this isn't. I will stare at you until you feel the need to hold a mirror in front of my nose just to check if I'm breathing. Really. IT DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. IT DEPENDS ON OPINIONS. Don't you try it, I can recognize a logical fallacy from a mile away. Regardless of if I'm wearing my glasses or not. Anyway, where was I? Oh right, art vs. pornography. I'm rolling with Bussy on this one. What is the difference? (Try to ignore negative connotations perhaps, and there aren't any?)
Need to finish We by whatsisface Russian guy whose name I can't possibly attempt with no guide, and halfway through Oryx and Crake my Margaret Atwood.
Good night! (1:18 am)
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