![[what I read in 2002]](/images/review_banner.gif)
Lullaby ::
When I read this:
Old George Orwell got it backward.
Big Brother isn’t watching. He’s singing and dancing. He’s pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother’s busy holding your attention every moment you’re awake. He’s making sure you’re always distracted. He’s making sure you’re fully absorbed.
He’s making sure your imagination whithers. Until it’s as useless as your appendix. He’s making sure your attention is always filled.
And this being fed, it’s worse than being watched. With the world always filling you, no one has to worry about what’s on your mind. With everyone’s imagination atrophied, no one will be a threat to the world.
I was totally sold on this book. I didn’t care about any weaknessess in the plot, about any of the over-the-top characters that I would never buy were they presented by a lesser writer. I wanted to see just how the sharp desparation shown in those three short paragraphs were going to play itself out in the rest of the book.
Of course, you add to this emotional powder-keg the spark of a lullaby that kills anyone who hears it, the story explodes and I not only want to watch the release of energy, I want to see the destruction that is left after the smoke clears.
Part of this is because the story is unbelieveable and unpredictable. I really felt like I had no idea what was going to happen next. But the part that galvinizes the story for me, that makes me buy it unsquestioningly, is the fact that I can relate to the desparation of the hero, which is summed up in a single passage. But what really makes it a good book is that, instead of trying to make the unbelievable real to me, it instead winds up making my life seem more unbeieveable and unreal. If that isn’t the mark of a great writer, then I don’t know what is, honestly.
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