(diaryland) September 09, 2010 - 11:46 a.m.

I seriously cannot fathom this book I read. The Sharper your Knife, the Less you Cry by Kathleen Flinn.

So, I read it. In two days. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

It's about this chick who goes to France and learns to cook complex French foods. Whatever. There is barely any tension in the story, I have no idea what all the ingredients are, and the people in the book although real, aren't really that interesting. Nothing happens, except that she passes three cooking exams.

But fuck, man, there is something about it that is so infuriatingly compelling that it consumed my whole weekend. I think the pages are laced with some incredibly potent addictive substance, and on the last page, they put an antidote, so I was left thinking, "WTF? Why did I just read the shit out of that book like it was a life-giving elixir?"

I have never felt that confused about my feelings after a book. Even Twilight.