"There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool spring breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison right in front of your eyes, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It’s a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat sh*t and die."
—Gonzo Papers, Vol. 2: Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the ’80s, 1988

Here’s another one by Hunter S Thompson, though I can’t remember which of his books had this: "Anybody from Texas who says ’I don’t care whatever the hell happens’ deservers whatever the hell happens to him."

So I never read Shakespeare by choice, and after reading Rushdie’s famous Midnight book, I shut my doors to him, Amartya Sen, S Maugham, A Roy, Vikram Seth, Dan Brown and JK Tyre, oops! JK Rowling, to name a few. None of these wrote anything straight. Hiding behind the coward’s cloak of style and suspense, and tabloid reviews, they all turned out fuc**ng hypocrites.

My bow-tied, wine-drining friends secretly think I’m uncivilised and primitive, but somehow I hit the bull in the eye by reading JD Salinger, Tom Wolfe, Hunter Thompson and Jack Kerouac, to name a few, again. 

I look for honesty in books. Some say one should appreciate the art of writing by looking at how writers create a lovely, magical world. 

Magic my foot. To hell with A Roy’s "sweet sticky vomit" in God of Small Things to those long, long, long lines of egoistic thugs created by Shakespeare, which every kid since 1900 AD have been told to read lest they be called buffons by fellow hypocrites.

I love God for giving me the wisdom to ignore these writers and saving around 120 days of my life learning nothing but how to pretend, pretend and pretend. 

I must go now.