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