I’ve been obsessing about Anne Rice lately. I keep thinking, what if she finally dies? Sorry for being morbid but, what if she does? For the last 5 years, all she ever wrote are her Jesus novels (which I prefer to get from the likes of Christopher Moore who gives Jesus hard-on and other sorts of unmessiah-like virtues) and her Christian-themed memoir Called Out of Darkness.
In college, I had obsessed even harder. In my so-called book review of Blood Canticle in the college paper, I prepared extra hard to write the most flattering, most know-it-all sounding book review of the last Chronicle to come out of Miss Rice’s most fabulous and most popular series, The Vampire Chronicles. I’d be the happiest fanboy if I could just get that ‘review’ published. You know how college writers are: so eager to dazzle the studentry with their gorgeous prose, with their world-changing take on the latest popular novel as if their sad, would-be ignored, cookie-cutter reviews will ever be read by anyone other than the editors and their sad selves. Me, I didn’t care. I just wanted to show off and hoped that Anne Rice herself will one day will read my review of her book.
As preparation for this, I’ve read every single Amazon review there is on Blood Canticle and they were among the most vicious criticisms I’ve ever read. The Anne Rice fans were vicious just because they weren’t happy about the final Lestat novel. I took this personally and may even have made an Amazon account just to get back at the retards who called Anne a hack. Fortunately for them, Amazon does not allow reviews from wannabes because they have a way of detecting. Joke lang. To be an Amazon reviewer as it turns out, you need to have purchased at least one item. Then October came and I was finally able to read the book in all its tarnished glory.
In a way, I was more relieved because it was certainly easier for me to malign, hate, criticize something I didn’t like. And I know Anne Rice so it would be very easy. Though she may never come across my beautiful writing as I wish she would, I still have the same hopes for vampire lit’s most enduring, most flamboyant, and sexiest vamp tramp Lestat. I thought Lestat should have had a more proper exit, a more bombastic one, any kind of exit befitting the true prince of vampire literature. If you’ve ever cared for Anne’s works, you’ll have no trouble denouncing Blood Canticle as an instrument of destruction which in its very slim form, took all but 400 pages to ruin whatever fantasies, hopes and dreams (of movie adaptations, musicals, etc) you may have had turned into, uh, ashes.
I have been looking for some thing to devoted ungodly fanaticism to but I just can’t find one as enduring as Anne Rice. She’s about to turn 69 this October 14 and to be symbolic about it, I am rereading Prism of the Night: A Biography of Anne Rice by Katherine Ramsland. I have a month to finish it and even though it’s Anne Rice-novel long, I’d still gladly indulge and set aside Blackwood Farm for the meantime. I have yet to find a thing to fanatically follow so I really hope she doesn’t die soon, and that she starts revamping The Vampire Chronicles soon. A fanboy can hope.
Dear Anne, if you’re reading this, happy 69th!