markk

So I just finished this after checking it out from the library, and I'm still in the sorting-feelings stage of the reading experience. Benford's an author I have a lot of time for and there's much in this that I liked. But it seems incredibly self-indulgent in places, with Benford interweaving his narrative with his takes on the people he's met (such as Robert Heinlein) and the times in which he lived. That part I can accept, but there's a lot of it that seems like more of an old man's wistful nostalgizing about how he would live life differently if he knew then what he knows now. And of course sex plays a big factor in this, which leaves me wondering if when I get to be an old man whether I'm going to spend my days fantasizing about all the first-rate fucking I would do if I could magically be transported back to my youth. It seems to be a theme with a lot of the de-aging novels written by older white dudes (who of course make their totally not-Gary Stus fabulous in the act) and frankly it makes me embarrassed for my gender.