a karmaic boot to the squishy bits
I picked up Christopher Moore's Fool and surprisingly ended up disliking it. A lot. Sure, it wasn't an easy task he took on, turning Shakespeare's King Lear into comedy--but the end result lost all semblance of joy. (Not that it could have much, being as the ending was very much "Rocks fall, everyone dies.") With this, though, Moore basically took the character blueprint of Biff from Lamb and made him a douchebag. Biff was trouble tempered by good intentions and his love for his best friend, Jesus. The titular Fool of this book, Pocket, is trouble with a perpetual hardon who does and says all manner of awful things because he feels the (still fairly awful) recipients deserve it.
You know how the basic idea behind King Lear was that Lear was a generally okay old guy who made a really dumb call and got kicked across his country for it? Moore's taken a different spin on things: Lear was a positively awful old bastard who was just getting what he deserved. Constantly. In spades. We shouldn't feel bad for him! He killed his father! And his brother! And his wives! And he raised his daughters to become the awful people they are! And he made someone rape someone!
To which I said, Wait wait wait hold on--the guy he was egging on chose to rape someone and it's Lear's fault. Hm.
Which makes one wonder about the moral accountability of Pocket tricking both the wicked sisters into nailing a drooling "I'm tired of hearing about how gigantic his bits are" nitwit.
But if the overarching moral of the story is that karma's fuckin' coming for you, the entire narrative thus becomes equivalent to watching a guy get kicked in the nuts by the universe a few dozen times. It's tiresome. And by the time the editor went to sleep at around page 200, I was barely engaged enough to roll my eyes at the Luke I am yourFather Uncle trope.
Dare I say it? I liked Diane Paxton's version, The Serpent's Tooth better.
. . . I should write a little about the latest Anne Bishop but I have to pack my wheelie-thing for tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet with the one lady who wants me to do commission/custom work and I need to be able to show off my stuff. :P
You know how the basic idea behind King Lear was that Lear was a generally okay old guy who made a really dumb call and got kicked across his country for it? Moore's taken a different spin on things: Lear was a positively awful old bastard who was just getting what he deserved. Constantly. In spades. We shouldn't feel bad for him! He killed his father! And his brother! And his wives! And he raised his daughters to become the awful people they are! And he made someone rape someone!
To which I said, Wait wait wait hold on--the guy he was egging on chose to rape someone and it's Lear's fault. Hm.
Which makes one wonder about the moral accountability of Pocket tricking both the wicked sisters into nailing a drooling "I'm tired of hearing about how gigantic his bits are" nitwit.
But if the overarching moral of the story is that karma's fuckin' coming for you, the entire narrative thus becomes equivalent to watching a guy get kicked in the nuts by the universe a few dozen times. It's tiresome. And by the time the editor went to sleep at around page 200, I was barely engaged enough to roll my eyes at the Luke I am your
Dare I say it? I liked Diane Paxton's version, The Serpent's Tooth better.
. . . I should write a little about the latest Anne Bishop but I have to pack my wheelie-thing for tomorrow. I'm supposed to meet with the one lady who wants me to do commission/custom work and I need to be able to show off my stuff. :P