It's not you, it's me. No, seriously, don't start crying and hitting me. I should know better than to take up with non-fiction when I know that's it's fiction that I really love. Admittedly, I love fiction in this incredibly slutty way, and even fiction books aren't safe from my wandering eye. I should also know when I read non-fiction, I tend to go for what a friend in publishing refers to as “the toilet read.” Give me something lurid or nerdy, not all this well written prose and insightful comments. This kind of non-fiction lives and dies by the voice of the author (for me) and Purkiss is an absolute dreamboat, clever and funny and revealing just enough about herself to seem like she's actually being intimate with her readers. Too bad I'm a thoughtless cad, terrified of commitment and intimacy. She deserves better than me! She deserves someone with a real passion for scholarly examinations of the fairy through the ages, not just some distractable slattern with a fiction wife and mistress already.
I have to admit the relationship is over. It turns out that the library only lets you renew your books for 12 weeks. After that, they assume you've lost your books and just kept hitting “renew” in an attempt to avoid paying the piper. (Like how I used the second person there, like it's your fault? I'm that good.) The best part of the end of the affair is that I'm only going to rate this three stars, just because I never finished it. Maybe we'll meet again, fair book, and the light will catch your spine, and your pages with glow with love and wonder, and then my reading will be consummated & we can smoke cigarettes together and tingle in the afterglow and look at the ceiling and wonder why it was so indifferent earlier when it's so good now. I may be a book slut, but I'm also a book romantic.
Someday you'll find your true reader, book. I'm just not the One.