Friday, December 07, 2007


This article in Slate brings back pleasant memories of Flowers in the Attic and its sequels, which I read when I was thirteen. My family was moving across the country, and my older sister was reading them already. As I burned through my reading material in the first few days of the agonizing two week drive, I quickly turned to what my sister was reading, quickly reading the first book, impatiently waited for the second, and quickly lapped my sister as she took breaks from reading the third. Lord knows the books aren't good at all, although I don't remember any of the prose well enough to slop up some gorgeous quotations. I think the sex was the most appealing part -- I bet I was disappointed when the albino dwarf twins didn't get it on.

Wow, those book sure don't inspire anything in the way of coherent thoughts twenty years down the line. I'm glad I read the books, if only because it gives me a surprising chick-lit touchstone to occasionally refer to during party conversations.

While looking for an appropriate image to post, I was disturbed by how many Myspace pages use the term "flowers in the attic."

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