I had to make myself read through the entirety of (an excerpt for) a novel based on the story of Assassin’s Creed 2 earlier. Normally, an excerpt of this size would take a couple of minutes to read through and even less time to dismiss and forget about. But this… this thing will probably stick with me for the rest of my life. See:
“They left the palazzo on foot together, arm in arm, and walked in the direction of the cathedral, to the small quarter near it where many of the artists of Florence had their workshops and studios. Some, like those of Verrocchio and the rising star Alessandro di Moriano Filipepi, who’d already acquired the nickname Botticelli, were large, busy places, where assistants and apprentices were busy grinding colours and mixing pigments, others, humbler.”
But I can’t slag it off. I can’t slate it. I can’t laugh at those who would buy this atrocity. Why? Because I have become as bad as the people who like this shit (and Dan Brown ‘novels’) and the twit who wrote it. I have, in recent months, started to read celebrity autobiographies. Well, I say ‘celebrities’, I mean Frankie Boyle and some wrestlers. Still, they’re more famous than you are, meaning they’re celebrities to me. People to be celebrated.
Rather than read the piles of crap from authors who some might say are respected, I am instead – as seems to be the norm – taking the path of least resistance. This time it’s by reading things that don’t make you think at all, but instead make you coo a bit like a fool and inform you of a life you have no experience of, nor will ever.
Actually, when I put it like that, it makes sense. I think I’ll re-read Bobby Heenan’s book now.