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23 November 2008

Into the Wild

I finished it in less than twenty four hours. I did not find it especially interesting nor especially well written. For every journalist out there: YOU ARE NOT A CREATIVE WRITER. DO NOT ATTEMPT ANY CREATIVITY. PLEASE. This book would be fine and dandy if Jon Krakauer could admit to himself that he is a journalist writing a book and go from there, but he didn't. He did his journalistic duty, and then he just had to add in some creative flair, you know, to incite the masses to read this unnecessary biography. Yes, it's sad. Yes, it's interesting. Yes, I would recommend reading it. No, I don't think it's that fucking special. I think this story deserves a lot more than what Krakauer was capable of giving it. He should have called Tom Wolfe for this one. 

There is something that very much irritates me about peoples' apparent fascination with dramatic death, like starving to death in an abandoned bus just a few miles from help in the Alaskan wilderness or being eaten by bears with your girlfriend. This kind of story is the National Bestselling type, but all those sweet memoirs written by non-journalists about someone special go unread all the time. ALL THE TIME. Basically, no one cares about you unless you went out in a fantastic, awful way. Why are stupid, perhaps slightly unbalanced people deserving of memoirs but normal people are not? Fuck, man. Get happy. 

In other news, no news. Still feeling negative/stressed about school. People? Blech. I feel a crusade against sexism bubbling to my surface. Oy. Maybe I will go to Alaska, get away for a while, catch some sights, die. Whatever. 

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