Books

Oh, to be able to wax lyrical about Wild Animus, the self published behemoth by Rich Shapiro, a man with too much disposable income. It’s strange, it’s overwrought, the prose is so purple that it’s florescent. And my copy was free, which was still too expensive. Your main character, our “hero,” Sam, dies in the first chapter, and throughout the rest of the story, you are treated to Berkeley drug culture in the 70’s written from the point of view of someone who didn’t experience it, rampant misogyny, and Sam slowly discovering that he should be one with the mountain goats, nay! He IS a mountain goat trapped in human form! Complete fever dream written as a hallucination. And you’re asking just how bad is the writing? Well…

"He drew the towels away. Through the resolving blur, he saw hair divided in the middle of her crown, a pyramid of high forehead, and cheeks bounded by sickle-shaped locks that pricked her chin. Her eyes were blue, fixed on him with the gravest stare he'd ever seen. He waited for her to bow her head, to turn, to laugh - but she didn't flinch. What made those great gulfs of eyes? And how could she invite a stranger to fathom them? Sam gazed deeper, imagining he saw the bottoms of rugged canyons in her eyes, the dark foundation of a different world. A hidden joy flickered in the depths, burning amid a consuming sorrow, and as he focused on that brightness, it blazed up, hopeful. Without thinking, his heart went out to her. There was no foundation here, only the desperate longing for one, more solid and lasting than the world she knew."

This terrible book will never leave my bookshelf. I can’t subject anyone else to it.