Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Shopaholic Takes Over

I had read Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic and Sister (http://iwantmycoffee.multiply.com/journal/item/27/reading_Kinsella) last year. I found a hardcover edition in Libreria's lanai--- she used to own a bookstore which closed down, and she was getting rid of the books in her stockpile. I had to buy the book because everyone knows a hardcover is infinitely better than a mass market paperback, it was new, and big, and I didn't have a single book in my shelf that came in that particular shade of green. I harbored no illusion that it was going to be cerebral, thought-provoking nor profound. Even then, I was rewarded with an entertaining way to pass the time; more constructive than, say, scribbling away in my notebook the pros and cons of having a haircut after years of growing it out.

A couple of months ago, my sister-in-law received the entire set of Kinsella's Shopaholic series--- as a belated Christmas present, I think. She let it take up residence in my bookshelf for the meantime, because she says she doesn't have time to read these days, and as a favor to me: an insatiable reader who devours almost any kind of printed matter, an addict who has a lot of time on her hands, and a book whore who has to read at least 2 novels at a time, interspersing one with a heavy or emotive theme with another more frivolous one for balance. That works out because, true to my nature, whenever I read a book that belongs to a series, I have to finish the entire collection--- even when it makes me nauseous at some point, similar to my experience with Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga and Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series.

With the first book in the collection, Shopaholic, it was such a light read that I was confident I could have taken on Oedipus Rex AND Ulysses alongside it. By Shopaholic Takes Manhattan, I swear I could feel my brain slowly and painfully liquefying, sloshing around in my head as I moved. I still maintain my opinion that Kinsella's writing style is refreshing and entertaining, but too much frivolity, one mindless book after another, gets to me. Instead of lifting my spirits as this genre is liable to do, it makes me unconscionably cranky. I become restive and I start getting suspicious of my usually sound mental health.

Maybe a new pair of shoes will help me come around.


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