Speak of the devil.

July 26, 2006

I realised I’m very particular about style of writing in the books I read.

I picked up The Devil Wears Prada a week ago because the movie is coming out soon and when films are based on books, I often like to read the book first. Also, I really liked the artwork on the sleeve (I know, I totally judge books by their covers). Anyway, I finally gave up after 45 pages. Truth be told, I was already irked by the first three pages but continued to plough through in deference of the $17 I forked out for it. Well, I tried but I guess there’s another one that’s going to be sitting pretty on my shelf for, like, forever?

It’s the same reason I couldn’t bring myself to go through Dan Brown (I only lasted one chapter of Da Vinci Code when most of the world thinks it’s God’s gift (pun intended) to the literary world), and reading Nora Roberts just kills me (I had the unfortunate pleasure of finishing one of her books on a 20-hour flight back from Seattle). I find the “New York Times Bestseller” claim highly dubious, after all Dan Brown, Nora Roberts and the aforementioned The Devil Wears Prada are staples on that list. It’s either Americans have seriously warped judgement or… I don’t know (How is it determined anyway?). And it’s incomprehensible, since I do quite admire NYT’s journalism.

Anyhow, I just picked up Vanishing Acts by Jodi Picoult, and a book with the very intriguing title of The Pig that Wants to be Eaten (go figure), from Borders today at the expense of fifteen minutes of The Lake House at Lido. I’ve only ever read one other book by Jodi Picoult, lent to me by my American roommate while I was in Munich. She part-times at Borders back home and apparently the employees get to bring home free presale copies of books that haven’t even been released yet as well as whatever music CDs they play at the store!

I remember loving My Sister’s Keeper, which is probably her most popular work anyway, but the premises for all her other stories are so different I wasn’t sure I would automatically take to them. The first two chapters, however, were such pleasure and a refreshing break from the drudgery that was The Devil. Perhaps plot (Dan Brown undeniably has that down, I suppose) and genre (I’m definitely not against chick lit: *hauls out collection of the Shopoholic series as proof*) ain’t all that important to me when it comes to books; I’m contented as long as the words themselves can be enough enjoyment.

P/S: For films, it works a bit differently for me. I believe the value of the film lies more in the storyline and script than in the flair of its presentation (taking high production quality in films to be the equivalent of literary flair in books).


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