Sacred territory

Michele points us toward this review of a new French bestseller that capitalizes on 9/11. Apparently it’s a fictional book that depicts people who were trapped in the World Trade Centers fucking fast and furiously as their office buildings crumbled.


Most everything else written about the book is in French, so I’m just taking everyone’s word for it. But I am disgusted nonetheless.

Shan and I talk often of 9/11, how it changed America. We wonder if there were two women, just like us, sitting together in one’s office and chatting about their ideas and the freelance/personal businesses that they were destined to start together, when the planes hit. We wonder about all of the lost potential and the dreams that went no further than that hallowed ground. We wonder if that could have been us — going through the motions of going to work every day until we could venture out on our own and really enjoy going to work again.

That’s the real story of 9/11, if anyone were to do a fictional account. I feel that Beigbeder’s torrid romance story spits on the ashen graves of so many thousands of people, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if the families who lost a loved one didn’t either sue his ass or hunt him down and kill him.

I never ask for books to be banned, but I want this one to be. And put this twisted mofo in a burning building with every last copy of his book.

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