I defenestrated Idoru, by William Gibson, though I really, really wanted to love it, because my then-supervisor cherished him so that while not steampunking the dirt in the yards forth and back of her large tippy house or smoking before early in a side yellow nook, she busily bid on his blue pencils and won. The me I imagine in her poring over that copy flips author/editor/author/editor and recites to the typeset the fastest litany, Agree. Disagree. Agree. Agree. And the other eye and the other hand meanwhile impatiently reads whatever novels are there, in only one sitting.
What other books have I defenestrated?
It is such a dramatic and pleasing event: revulsion, frustration, culmination, too much, decision, fling, cleared, sails, arcing, freed, breeze–or blackwater air dampened dark, even more sound because wilt, melt, decompose, fuse, settle, mulch, compost, wet in a way that never will dry, scapegoated, displaying revulsion all over again to passersby who falsestep too near. Maybe stained in semen? disgorged by a beast? somehow used to bludgeon? buried bodies?
What else has cleared the sill, or sailed into the dark-grown mouth just glimpsed in the night off of balconies? The only titles I recall choreographing thus are The Celestine Prophecy and The Da Vinci Code. So, no, never read them. Don’t know if they’re good.