Australian Tragic? Tragic Australian, more like.

You know, as a cool, calm, rational individual, it's not often I find myself flying off into a rant of epic proportions. But occasionally, it DOES happen. Like now. So brace yourself.

We got the above book in at work a few weeks ago. Australian Tragic by Jack Marx. And NEVER. In my ENTIRE LIFE. Have I been so damn enraged by the existence of a book.

I mean honestly, what kind of socially inept monster feels the need to read a book thats sole reason to exist is to capitalise on the grief and misery of others? It's obscene. Basically, it's a book of short stories. Snapshots of otherpeoples misfortune, so that readers can feel smug and good about themselves that it didn't happen to them. It's utterly appalling. And to add to the offensiveness of the whole thing, Jack Marx (douchebag extreme) tries to pass his ghoulish little tales off as literature by spewing out overdramatic literary references for the masses to ooh and aah over, whilst they eat crisps and gawk at misery.

This book is the worst kind of capitalisation. It's someone, completely removed from the horrific events in question, making money from a safe distance by splashing peoples lives across the page so that other freaks, equally removed from said event, can feel good about themselves. I hate it SO MUCH. One chapter is about the woman who lost her children in the fire at Luna Park. Yes, thats right. Her children burnt to death in an amusement park. In what way, shape or form does that need to be written about? Especially by some jerk trying to turn it into a cheap thrill, sensationalised beyond all recognition and plastered about for the world to see. It makes me so angry. Grief is an incredibly personal thing. Especially grief of that magnitude. If it was a book written by the survivors of these tragedies, it would be a completely different matter, because therein lies at least SOME merit. It becomes a tale of human triumph, of success over crippling adversity, but in this context? No. Success isn't the goal. The goal is to repulse, just slightly. It's a regurgitated horror story for people that want to think "Thank god that wasn't me".

And you know what really pisses me off about this? As an author, you have the power to create something. Something powerful, something fanciful, even something that is complete and utter bollocks. Whatever. It's your power. You can use words to do anything. So why waste them on something as hideous and repulsive as this? This isn't creating anything. It's not even reporting on anything. It is the lowest form of writing. And to be making money off it? Jack Marx should be completely, utterly ashamed of himself. And so should everyone that buys this book.

It's repugnant.

*takes a deep breath*