l am not an admirer of thriller, spy or crime fiction but it,
unfortunately, happened on Friday. I was on the abandoned bookstore on the
corner of Flinders’ Street. When I enter the bookstore, store owner darted a
cold frown to me when I asked, 'any interesting turned up this week?' as
passing by the counter. I have a unique set of rules of mine to choose a book
to buy. I choose randomly even page and read it twice if I get goosebumps in
the first read; the book is bad. I reached to the Camino Island by John Grisham
and first I squeezed it like Jim Morrison used to squeeze his balls during his
concert. That karma is called the affection to the arts. I read the chosen
page.
It has nothing to deal with my selection criteria but there was a
special phrase protruding like 'nipples of Venus'; ‘we got Gatsby, that old son
of a bitch’. I bought that book because The Great Gatsby is F. Scott
Fitzgerald's best-known creation. I thought the book will have something
interesting about Fitzgerald.
It's not a raving review or something like that but it was not worthy
to read. Adhering to the novel in my limited time cost me the weekend. It does
not have humungous so-called philosophical stuff which I wanted to read but has
a simpleton story about the heist of the manuscript.
My Rating: 1 of 5