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May 11, 2013 / Tina

A Review of Time and Time Again by Harry Browne: Inksplinter For Life.

Title: All You Present-Tense Heads are Gonna Lose!
Written by Camillus John.
As soon as I read the first couple of chapters of Harry’s Time-Travel book on the Inksplinters website (https://inksplinters.wordpress.com/harrys-book-chapters-1-2/)
I started to itch, itch, itch for more. So I gave in and started scratching forthwith:  I got a copy of the full book. I really had no choice. Itchy, itchy, itchy. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
After four chapters, I’d scratched my entire neck, right arm and left testicle down to the raw flesh and bone.  Then I scratched into my legs and  stomach when I hit tasty chapter 5, which is lovingly sculpted from the two-horned Viking age by the way, sprinkled lightly with the grated brain shavings of a Georgian dandy and garnished with parsley to finish. That’s how good it is – and how itchy me.
I am a consummate gibbon now, scratching and gibbering uncontrollably about time travel and all its quantum possibilities as a direct result of Harry’s coruscating fictional debut.  Just a big bag of purulent sores that’s all I am now, because I’ve scratched all my skin off in mouth-foamed anticipation of big bad chapter 12 with a fringe on top: rumoured to be the holy grail of Science-Fiction by the way, in high heels no less. Read it to find out, I’m not a spoiler. Itchy, itchy, itchy. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
My pet dog is now called Flux Capacitor in homage, his scratched-down-to-nothing floppy ears  are now just a fond memory on his pus-inflated head of green.  Then vibrating chapter 15 comes at you with a tinselled cherry on top of the cherry on top. Flash. Life hurts and everything festers but I must read on. I must. Oh the pain.  I am 42 years of age, the meaning of life, the universe and everything is me according to the Hitchhiker’s Guide, yet so too is this book in oh so many spectrum-splitting ways of infinite pullulation.
Schopenhauer said, ”Will produces conflict among individuals, deludes us into believing that obtaining what we want is important, continually stimulates new desires and generally inspires acts of evil. The will causes us to suffer and to inflict suffering. The only secure salvation from a life of continual suffering is renunciation of the will.”
And Harry said, when I interviewed him live and direct from page 35 of his novel last week, “Watch out Rodney! That rasher sandwich over there has just sprouted two legs and is coming after you with a long stick with a rusty nail in the top. Quick! Up that steam beanstalk (The MK 6 perchance?) to page 120 and Nirvana right now! I’ll give you a leg-up!”
I know who I’m with on this one. And it’s not Schopenhauer. Itchy, itchy, itchy. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
I may presently be just a mass of putrid sores and rotting flesh, but life is truly madly, deeply, only worthwhile when reading Harry’s magnum opus. I only hope that when I get to the end it doesn’t say, “To be continued,” for I won’t live that long. Iching, itching constantly itching for more words, paragraphs, chapters, meanings. Gangrene is a hard gang-master. And yet I scratch. And yet I read Harry. And scratch again.  I’m on a drip now almost dead in the hospital bed still turning the pages though. Scratch left. Scratch right. Highly recommended plot. Scratch right up the middle. I’d love to give this book a big thumbs-up, but alas and alack folks, I haven’t got a thumb anymore to do so. Just pus. Green, khaki and nankeen.
Ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t go out and buy this book forthwith you’ll surely die regretting it forever. It’s a cracker best served with cured ham.
P.S. With the aid of Harry’s well delineated time machine of soft steam, I can of course press a button and go back to the exact minute when I started typing this review and erase everything, anytime I want. If you think you’ve read this, then think again present-tense-heads, in five minutes you won’t remember a thing – and you’ll owe me a fiver to boot.
In summary this: Get Harry’s book or I’ll scratch your eyes out! – with my bony only finger and do you really want to know where it’s been? Because I’ll tell you, I will, straight up. Suppurated. Go on, just do it, buy the damn book! Itchy, itchy, itchy. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
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