When I read a work of fiction, it is to immerse myself in a different world. I have known for years that I am an escapist reader and as such I am not much of a fan of most of the post-modern work I have read-given its heavy emphasis on gritty modern life. If I want that level of angst I can gossip with friends, read the newspaper, or read my yellowing teen-angst poetry collection.
Art that I welcome into my life must contain seeds of redemption or beauty within its structure. Art is my antidote to the vicissitudes of life.
101 Reykjavik is unwelcome art. It stormed around the house leaving beer cans and other refuse, refused to share the bathroom, and expected me to clean up after it. I have enough entropy in my life without its help. So I kicked it out, changed the locks, and, quite literally, went on a cleaning spree.
Not always in the way its creator intends.