Alright gang, it’s been awhile since I have really torn into a book, and I am feeling cranky today, so I’m really going to let this one have it. You have been warned, so the sensitive among you may want to turn away and think happy thoughts about flowers and unicorns or whatever floats your book.
This book is a pile of steaming shit, writhing with maggots, stuck to the bottom of society like a weeping chancre sore. And you know what, that’s one metaphor too many, but I am running with it, because this book is, seriously, everything that I hate. And I actually slogged all the way through it, because I trust the person who recommended it to me, and at this point, I can only assume that she recommended it to me because she was looking forward to seeing me shred it, since she’s that kind of gal.
In this book, you can find the embodiment of everything I hate about self-conscious, idiotic yuppies. Books like this are why people are buying “weekend farms” and eating up the few family farms in America. Books like this are why rural communities are getting so expensive to live in, because stupid pretentious wannabe Buddhist scum are buying up properties at obscenely high prices so that they can “live the dream,” only really they have an ample safety cushion to fall back on when their pathetic attempts at the rural lifestyle snivel off into failure, which they will. Books like this are among the top 10 reasons I have trouble getting out of bed every morning.
Now, this may sound incredibly racist/agist/classist to you, but I have a huge problem with middle aged white lady Buddhist converts. Why? Because they make me gag, that’s why, with all their talk of “self actualization” and “consciousness” and the “deep peace of animal creation.” Seriously, wtf, people. I do not want to read about how someone cherrypicked the aspects of Buddhism she liked just so that she could feel better about slaughtering animals.
Aside from the fact that the author’s language was stilted, awkward, incredibly self-conscious, and painfully pretentious, I spent every page of this book either writhing or wanting to bash my head into something. Either she was idealizing the rural life, or she was spouting off about topics she knows absolutely nothing about, or she was making up pseudo-Buddhist fake hippy bullshit.
You know what should be done with books like this? They should be taken out back and shot, along with the people who fawn over them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find this “author” and take a giant steaming crap on her face. With all her romanticization of sheep shit, maybe she’ll get off on it, who knows.
The Barn at the End of the World, by Mary Rose O’Reilley. Published 2000, 317 pages. Biography.