I read The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan this past weekend at work.
You all are going to think I only enjoy books that involved cannibalism, which may or may not be true but is besides the point. This book was fucking amazing. I am buying all of his other books.
It's like Nabokov wrote Stoker...about werewolves. It's heady, deep, yet commercial as all hell, shamelessly erotic (which is how I prefer all my eroticism), full of earnest violence and horror and thoughtful demise..... it's brilliant. It's everything I aspire to be able to write someday.I loved it from the 3rd page.
Reader, my jealousy knows no bounds.
I can think "well, perhaps because he's older than me, that's why he could write this book", assuming maybe someday I could write something this completely fucking awesome too. But there's the aura of a classical education in the book (and in his bio) and then I lament the state of my own education, mostly self-taught. If only I'd been pushed harder in my youth, by people with broader horizons! Then this could be the type of book i could write instead of the kind i enthusiastically enjoy, even as snakes of envy curl inside my heart.
It's amazing. Really, it is.