...and cheshyre, you owe me some sort of read-that-one-so-you-didn't-have-to consolation prize.
Book #53: Chris Hunt, Mignon
ellen_kushner presented me with this book at Readercon, as a sort of joke. For those of you joining us in progress, I've been reviewing (and occasionally sporking) Marlowe and Shakespeare and Jonson fiction and biography in my blog for the past three years or so. I think she wanted to test me.
Well, I showed her.
I read it.
Oh, dear. This is a sort of category romance with a good deal of sodomy in it, as queer not-terribly-erotica goes an honest enough example of its type, I suppose. But the protagonist is a thoroughly unlikable chap who spends paragraphs musing on the plumpness of his thighs, the other characters are more or less faceless, and while the plot might reveal itself upon inspection with more sophisticated tools than I had at hand, I was unable to discern it.
Although, in its defense, the sex scenes are less winceable--though much vaguer--than the ones in either Tamburlaine Must Die or Young Will. So at least that's something.
I am not, in short, the target audience for this one.