Maybe just a nibble, maybe just a squeeze: on breasts, blood, babies, and Never Let Me Go (though not in that order)

The Morning News is currently holding the second annual Tournament of Books. The brackets have hit round two, and I am forced, though belatedly, to agree with Edward Champion: the Tournament jumped the shark today, when Mark Sarvas chose a book that I haven't read over Never Let Me Go.

I think it's safe to assert that current and regular readers of my little blog will not be surprised when I say that, when I learned of Mark's decision, it may have crossed my mind, however briefly, to suggest, perhaps to even merely imply, in an entirely joking fashion (though with a certain cunning undertone of vaguely contained anger/angst, itself masking its own Midwestern "Aw, shucks, t'warn't nothin' but fun meant by it!" beating heart) that this decision proves one thing: Mark Sarvas eats babies because he hates America. And babies. Except when served, medium-rare, on a plate, with a baked potato. And steak sauce.

Here, if you're interested, is Mark's judgment. But if you haven't read Never Let Me Go yet, and if you somehow, blessedly, still know little to nothing of the story, then you should read the book before clicking that link. (And what are you waiting for, anyway? Must I bleed my recommendations? Don't tell me you haven't even considered reading Steve Erickson's Our Ecstatic Days yet. You haven't, have you? Fine: hand me my blade.) But suffice it to say that when Mark "Fancypants Babyeater" Sarvas says things like

Never Let Me Go is a virtuoso display of icy control but is finally as flat as the voice that narrates it.

and

But what was heartbreaking there [in The Remains of the Day] is merely grating here.

and

Ishiguro has a clear purpose in mind that he executes faultlessly, so in the end it's a book one can admire--but is unlikely to love.

that I feel I must set aside my humorous smack-talk (because, I ask you, what good are tournament-style brackets without liberal heaping helpings of smack-talk?) in favor of a serious and heartfelt call of capital-b Bullshit. Just a few days ago, I finished reading Never Let Me Go for the second time; my pre-existent emotional and spiritual state during this reading could not have been much more different than that of my first time through the book. That first time I read the book, it scared me and broke my heart. This second time I read it, the book offered me, wait for it, comfort--of all things, comfort, from a piece of modern art!--in a time of sadness. That one book was able to do both things only increased my regard for this warm--far from icy!--bundle of words; refutation of Mark's suggestion that a person would be "unlikely to love" Never Let Me Go is left as an exercise for the reader.

All that said, there's at least one point I can agree with, though it comes from John Warner's post-match analysis (which, itself, should also be avoided, until you've read the book). It's true: Scarlett Johansson has very, very nice breasts.