How I hate the beach read and its cousin, chick lit. They’re made up genres, and not even the cool kind like “paranormal teen romance.” To me a beach read needn’t be about a cat that solves crime or a woman and her passionate love affair with cocktails and the men who pour them; they need to be light (because my industrial size bottle of SPF 75 is taking up most of the space in the beach bag). So here we have six novellas, Spanish for a book only a little thicker then a double issue of Lucky and five times as edifying. Come on, which is a more respectable tweet “Finally got around to reading The Dead, wonderful!” or “on page 106 of The Cat who Loved Chloroform”?
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