Full disclosure: I read this book, like, a month ago. Almost a month. A month, minus six days. Call it three weeks. And the thing is, you wouldn't know that, without my telling you, because I'm back-dating this post. Dishonest? I'm not sure, it depends on what you're expecting the dates of these posts to measure. What they do measure (and I suppose that's it's better I tell you now and clear the air) is when I actually finished reading the book in question. That's why there are a number of posts technically dated before this blog existed--not because I've discovered the secret of time travel and decided to put it to an extremely mundane use, but because I cheated on the "post options" section, here. So don't worry about it: you know the truth now, and the truth, it turns out, doesn't really matter. Why tell you at all? Because I don't remember all that much about these Ward Moore novellas, at this point. They were short, they were haunting, and they went by all too fast (Lot's Daughter is much creepier than the already fairly-creepy Lot). Without going into and getting confused about detail, let's just call these two the most unfortunately realistic, pessimistic portrayals of post-apocolyptic America (California, of course) I've read in a long time. A-.
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