Old shame: A review of Feist’s Magician

Oh, high school. The time when you’re pompous and unaware of it; archaic and unaware of it, cliched and unaware of it; and a windbag without style or self-control… and unaware of it.

Seriously, if I was grading book reviews and this came in, I would kneecap the reviewer.

The assignment probably was, to much grumbling, “Read a book in English and write a short review”; my reaction probably was, “Let me think what books I’ve read in English lately, and which are such as your brain WHICH ARE NOT MY GIANT BRAIN can comperhend!!!

(click to embiggen; also, giant spoilers!)

Raymond E. Feist’s Magician is actually a good book, and not like how this smug, patronizing generic drivel makes it sound like. I would have been either a very bad or a very good professional critic.

(Note: “tms.” is short for tai muuta sellaista, Finnish for “or something like that”. And the grade, ah, I don’t remember what “9/2” was. Nine and a half, out of ten? Surely not nine points out of two! Maybe the teacher’s blood pressure reading. “I could handle pompous, but why prolix, too?”)

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