I have a common disease. I have plenty of books on my currently-reading shelf, so why the hell do I have this need of reading more and more when I haven't finished the other ones yet? I start looking for random stuff and I end up reading another new book. No wonder all my well-planned readings stay in that shelf for months. It is pointless. I don't even know how I ended up with this book. I remember… I was looking for a blueberry muffins' recipe ... and then, all blank, blank... some article, blank, Molière (already waiting for me and my literary anxiety), blank, poetry, more blank, Girondo. Freaky, funny, witty, acid, mind-blowing Girondo.
After some pages, I found myself asking out loud: what the hell am I reading? There are some of his prose poems that I loved (amazing images, familiar feelings, fascinating and provocative writing) and others that I REALLY hated, even when he's trying to say something nice and deep and correct.
I don't know. I liked it, most of the times. I probably should read another of his books to make up my mind.
And, of course, I started reading and forgot all about the muffins.
Worst. Cook. Ever.