Click on the above book cover to be taken to a site about David Gilmour
So…he’s done it again.
Sometimes I feel just like Superman. But only in the way I crash to the ground, weak-kneed and sullen, whenever I get around to reading David Gilmour’s latest novel. Yes, Mr. Gilmour is my kryptonite. I’m never actually Superman, the strong invincible guy who sometimes changes into his tights in phone booths. For those of you from younger generations (and/or unfamiliar with either Dr. Who or Bill & Ted), the following picture contains phone booths…in case you’re wondering what they are.
So, yeah. Although I never ever get to be that Superman, I often find myself assuming the guise of the suffering kryptonite weakened Superman.
And David Gilmour is responsible for this. His latest hit to my indefatigability (it’s a word now) is a beautiful little novel called THE PERFECT ORDER OF THINGS. (Click the title to go to Mr. Gilmour’s publisher’s site… Thomas Allen & Sons.) Oh how this book haunts me. I want somebody to bring me the head of David Gilmour on a silver platter. But not in a bad way…really. Don’t decapitate him or anything. I don’t want him dead. I need him to be alive. I need this sweet sweet krptonite pain to occur again…when I get to read his next novel. So, though I don’t want him dead…I do want him in front of me. I just need to slap his face. And just to make sure he is real. Just to get him back for making me the sad pathetic Superman one would find splayed in a gutter with a nugget of kryptonite sitting on his chest, laughing. If kryptonite could laugh, that is.
Dear Mr. Gilmour:
Why should one man get ALL the perfect sentences? Why should one man have Awesome Agent Sam Hiyate & all the perfect sentences? Why are you allowed to have the monopoly on perfectionism in the field of fictional nostalgia? Why, why, why do you write the most beautiful word combinations on the face of the planet!? I have the same 26 letters at my disposal, Mr. Gilmour. The exact same 26 letters…I shit you not. But I assemble them next to yours and mine look like mud patties next to your world champion sandcastles in the sky.
Pretty, isn’t it!
Oh well, you have to start somewhere right.
Mr. Gilmour…one doesn’t digest all of your novels without wondering if you google alert yourself. You’ve made no bones about the fact that you’re vain. (-: When you read this mad rant from your maddest of readers, know that I wish you no malice. It’s okay that your novels throw me into a deep depression for a couple of weeks. No biggie. In the end, the mad mad love I have for your perfect (in every damn way) sentences only helps me to strive to be a better writer. So, I guess our relationship is win/win. I win by dying inside with blood curdling screams of envy and love for your words. You win in knowing that if all the earth were to turn against you for some unknown reason, I would still purchase your next book. I would stand in a line of one or one million and one for your next book. You can put that in your pocket. A guaranteed sale. That’s something, isn’t it?
Thank you so much for your words.The Perfect Order of Things is yet another perfect offering. A beautiful read from first word to last. Out of 5 stars, I give it 6. Man, the things you do with words!
Everybody…go out to your closest bookstore. Or go online to your closest ebook store. BUY a David Gilmour novel. Discover what the perfect combination of words looks like. ANY of his novels. Discover the beautiful ache of nostalgia that Gilmour intricately weaves into every story.
I must take a much needed rest. The kryptonite is making me groggy. I must wait for the haze to subside. I’ve been Gilmoured yet again. I must lie down.
Your biggest fan and your most hostile and happy reader.
PS: Mr. Gilmour, if EVER you would like to participate in the ONTARIO WRITERS’ CONFERENCE in ANY way, please do give me a contact. You can speak, or teach or just sit there and eat. The offer is OPEN.