Tolton
Thomas Merton wrote once something along the lines that writing for oneself is writing for no one. Something to that effect. Sleepless Nights is a book for no one. What sets out to be a meditation on memory and life comes together as a series of unrelated and poorly composed portraits that flatten their subjects in a kind of catty, superficial way, albeit very pretty at times. You find little beneath a surface of mundane observations on character and circumstance. Though there are brief digressions about her parents and her past which are inspired, have heart. But when she writes about these figures from her past, the impression given from her is an apathetic distance. A juvenile sort of cynicism about relationships and love and ideas hangs over her depictions. It's boring and lacks tenderness or compassion.
Hardwick's purple montage approach to sentences takes one at first, but quickly loses its novelty once one realizes the string of objects she chooses could be replaced with anything, given they fit the general cadence and rhythm of the sentense. It is a short, dull book I found myself wanting to skip through despite the sections being brief.
Thomas Merton wrote once something along the lines that writing for oneself is writing for no one. Something to that effect. Sleepless Nights is a book for no one. What sets out to be a meditation on memory and life comes together as a series of unrelated and poorly composed portraits that flatten their subjects in a kind of catty, superficial way, albeit very pretty at times. You find little beneath a surface of mundane observations on character and circumstance. Though there are brief digressions about her parents and her past which are inspired, have heart. But when she writes about these figures from her past, the impression given from her is an apathetic distance. A juvenile sort of cynicism about relationships and love and ideas hangs over her depictions. It's boring and lacks tenderness or compassion.
Hardwick's purple montage approach to sentences takes one at first, but quickly loses its novelty once one realizes the string of objects she chooses could be replaced with anything, given they fit the general cadence and rhythm of the sentense. It is a short, dull book I found myself wanting to skip through despite the sections being brief.