I’m always getting emails from publicists inviting me to review their clients’ books. I have no idea why they pick on me. What would ever make them think I was interested? Like, they know enough to know that I do book reviews, but have no idea what kind of books I review.
The invitation I got today was for a horror called Remembrance of Blue Roses by one Yorker Keith, who learned how to write novels in college. It seems to be about a menage-a-trois among three goofs, a guy named Mark and a married couple named Hans and Yukari. Hans and Yukari? Oh, please.
They meet at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and go on to share first friendship, then sex and obsession, along with classical music, opera (oh please again), and art. They never go to wrestling matches. These shared passions are “illuminating the lives of these international civil servants at the United Nations headquarters…”
Who’s out there saying “Uncle! Uncle!”
Eventually Mark’s ex-wife and ex-fiancee show up and there’s a menage-a-cinq or something, and it ends in a tragedy, although the only tragedy I can see here is that the UN is still standing at the end of the book.
What in the world made the publicist think I would ever want to read such a thing? Why would anybody? A bunch of arty-farty citizens of the world experimenting with assorted fornications… oh, feh. And it’s almost lunchtime, too.