Look, I’m no slouch when it comes to reading fiction: I basically consume nothing else. If I could absorb short stories instead of eating, I would. Food is the worst. But nobody—and I mean nobody—reads the crap on the Man Booker Prize’s shortlist. It just isn’t done.
First off, you’ve got Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel: that’s the banner name, according to The Millions. I guess she wrote that stupid-looking Wolf Hall novel (2009’s winner) about Thomas Cromwell that had everyone remembering historical fiction existed in the first place. And this is the sequel concerning Anne Boleyn. If this sounds like well-worn territory, that’s because it is! PASS.
Then there’s Umbrella, by Will Self. I don’t think I could get through an interview with this guy, much less a whole book of him. Just kidding, I’ll probably read the one he wrote about monkeys one day. Still, I’m bored just thinking about it. Anybody who says stuff like “I write to astonish people” seems a good candidate for a thorough ignoring.
A bunch of other books, too. For a shortlist, this isn’t very short? Also something called The Garden of Evening Mists. I believe the title alone should preclude any honors.
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