You think we're dancing? ... That's all we've ever done.

 

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My novel 2004.. My novel 2006.. My novel 2008..

(diaryland) February 10, 2006 - 10:07 a.m.

So, I bought this particular book. It was in a very interesting shop in a very remote part of the world, but that's pretty much irrelevant.

It looked like a really good book. It was written in the middle of the nineteenth century by a well-known author. It was over six hundred pages long, but let me tell you, boy, was it a page-turner. I was glued to the book and was ploughing through it at a rate of knots. It was one of the most interesting and exciting books I'd ever read. I couldn't wait to get to the finish. The back of the book said that it was this particular author's crowning achievement, really, and I could see why. It was even made into a TV show in 1999.

And so, I was getting very, very near the end. All the loose ends were about to be tied up, but this dude left to go on some kind of research trip to Africa, so would he actually get together with the chick like we were all hoping?

Dunno.

Elizabeth Gaskell died before she finished the novel, and nobody told me. Jesus Christ. You can't leave people hanging like that. There should have been a freaking cautionary phrase on the cover. "Warning: this book may contain unfinished scenarios." It's like Bach's The Art of Fugue. If nobody told you that right in the very last piece of the masterwork, where he writes a fugue based on the letters of his own name, his most bestest fugue ever, that he dies and the music cuts off right at the climax, then you would be mighty pissed off. It's the same deal here.

I don't know how to get over this. Maybe I need to borrow the TV show from the video library. Maybe it made up an ending for everyone.




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