Yesterday’s Sun

A book called Yesterday’s sun by Amanda Brooke turned up in my house for some reason. Having read the first 24 pages, filled with such eruptions of literary onanism as…

“…the tell-tale white buds of of spring sparkled against the night…”

I decided the book was an unreadable, cliche-ridden depiction of dreary people, about whom I felt nothing. The descriptions are flawed:

“…Her bed was a writhing mass of bed-linen..”

…”Writhing”? Is somebody still in it, or are there a lot of bed bugs? The story is melodramatic nonsense: she’s been whisked into the future for some reason and seen herself dead, something she described as

…the tentacles of her living nightmare…

It’s as if she’s thrown a dart into a thesaurus for descriptions. Similes are sprayed onto the page with the care and attention of a man urinating after ten pints. Above all the dialogue is, frankly, unbelievable…

“…I hope you can see me; I hope you can hear me, sweetheart because I don’t think I can go on if you’d completely left me.” Tom’s voice was a crackled whisper, and he closed his eyes tightly, suppressing the tears that had sprung to his eyes.

and later

…”Good morning, my light, my life” Tom chirped. “Good morning, my compass my anchor”, replied Holly.

I’ve left skid marks on the U-bend with more literary merit than this story about the human equivalents of magnolia paint. The good news is I don’t have to read it, nor do I have to measure what I say about it. I have read 24 pages so YOU don’t have to. Nevertheless for all its faults, the book it raises some profound questions about the human condition: THIS gets published? Why? For whom?

3 replies
  1. NickM
    NickM says:

    Funny thing is I recently found a book in the house withno idea where it came from. It was a sort of kiddy verson of Don Quixote in Spanish – a language neither me now my wife read!


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