05 April 2011

One star is golden! I'll win the Griffin!

Snowball, Dragonfly, Jew earned one out of five stars on someone's review blog. She says she was unable to write her own "synapsis" of the book, which she found to be a "mis-mash of scenes" ("Some of which don't even make any sense on their own, let alone taken as a whole with the others.")

This might be the best review I'll get — she gave five stars out of five to Stieg Larsson, Robert Sawyer and John Grisham, so obviously I'm doing everything right!

Incidentally, the nominees for the 2011 Griffin Prize were released today. I must reveal that I wrote all of the nominated books, under various pen names. I will accept the award not for myself, but for the employees of Burma-Shave.

Over and out.

4 Comments:

At April 06, 2011 1:09 am , Anonymous Zena said...

help: i tried
to write A
Stupid Poem
but,
my
synapsis
misfired

 
At April 12, 2011 5:57 pm , Anonymous Zena said...

Mor(ph)un with mangled (meta?) malapropisms...

i'm sorry i
trashed
your room my
synapsis
snapped,
sis

(my apologies, Stu - I just don't know what's gotten into me lately...)

 
At April 12, 2011 9:49 pm , Anonymous Zena said...

And one more for the road...

Stupid (found) Poem

Let me just say this:
Let's be clear about the facts.
That's simply not true; that's
Simply not true! That's simply
Not true.
That's simply not
...that's
simply
that's
I don't accept the truth --

(okay, I'll stop now...)

 
At April 14, 2011 10:54 pm , Anonymous Anonymous said...

The Post-Babel Curfuffle
reading Alessandro Porco's review of Stuart Ross in Northern Poetry Review

To approach is not to arrive completely...
Poets shed their skins like other lizards,
and flies collect the dots and rub their fingers
and spill out a tiny interpretive excrement seen
only by scientists with microscopes. I propose
a largescale operation to steal all microscopes
away from the bourgeois materialists. The monists
with their glasses and their premature baldness
will not be the only enlightened apes.
In this paradise, revolution will beget glorious revolution,
and the critics will admit that we are all Orphic Snakes
dangling from Icarian Adams, and that Eve was not a pacemaker
but a poet, too – a real heart – disembodied and painted
by her detractors in the unforgiving and most understandable
light of the post-Babel curfuffle.

 

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