“I write in a genre that was not defined by me. The examples were not set out by me. They were set out 2,000 years ago by Aeschylus, Sophocles and Euripides. They were called the Greek tragedies. A thriller is supposed to thrill. A horror novel is supposed to scare you. A mystery is supposed to keep you turning the pages, guessing ‘whodunit?’“A romance novel is supposed to make you escape into a fantasy of romance. What is the purpose of what I do? These are love stories. They went from (Greek tragedies), to Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, then Jane Austen did it, put a new human twist on it. Hemingway did it with A Farewell to Arms.”Sparks pulls [a book] off the shelf. “A Farewell to Arms, by Hemingway. Good stuff. That’s what I write,” he says, putting it back. “That’s what I write.”
When asked about his favorite coming-of-age tale, Nicholas Sparks NAMES HIS OWN BOOK. And then, Nicholas Sparks, author of A WALK TO REMEMBER, levies a scathing criticism on the winner of the National Book Award, the Pulitzer Prize, and the MacArthur “Genius Grant” Fellowship, Cormac McCarthy:NICHOLAS SPARKS. Perhaps you are on strong medications? Or deranged. But ok, you brought it up - you're asking for it. So here we go. A quote from your book, The Last Song:
“Horrible,” he says, looking at Blood Meridian. “This is probably the most pulpy, overwrought, melodramatic cowboy vs. Indians story ever written.”
Ronnie stared out the window, knowing full well that her mom's lips had just formed a tight seam. Her mom did that a lot these days. It was as if her lips were magnetized.And a quote from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridien, which I, Gayle Force, have personally found completely breathtakingly genius:
They moved on to the public baths where they descended one by one into the waters, each more pale than the one before and all tattooed, branded, sutured, the great puckered scars inaugurated God knows where by what barbarous surgeons across chests and abdomens like the tracks of gigantic millipedes, some deformed, fingers missing, eyes, their foreheads and arms stamped with letters and numbers as if they were articles requiring inventory. Citizens of both sexes withdrew along the walls and watched the water turn into a thin gruel of blood and filth and none could take their eyes from the judge who had disrobed last of all and now walked the perimeter of the baths with a cigar in his mouth and a regal air, testing the water with one toe, surprisingly petite.You're right, Nicholas Sparks. NO COMPARISON.