Since One Day’s screen version came out in August 2011, and the book appeared everywhere, I’d been making a conscious effort to have nothing to do with it. Neither the film nor the novel. From all descriptions I had heard, it sounded as if Nicholas Sparks had re-written the Before Sunrise trilogy. Sacrilege, I know. Sacrilege, cheese and tears.
I like Sasha Grey. While Anal Cavity Search 6 doesn’t sound like my type of film, I love the idea of a (former) sex worker who campaigns with PETA, participates in a kids’ reading program, stars in an experimental drama and writes her own book, which is not entitled My Fucking Life.
I hesitated for months before reading Susan Sontag’s diaries. I knew I’d love them, of course – as a devout fan of Sontag, I’d adore a Tesco press release if she had written one. The reason of my reluctance was that I don’t like the thought of peeking into someone’s private journal – published when they’re dead and cannot object, or even unfriend me on Facebook as a punishment for reading it.