I tried, Canaries. I really tried.
I pushed my way through so much boring action, so many quaint appearances by Niccolo Machiavelli, and so much freaking talking, but I have reached my wit’s end with Michael Scott’s The Magician.
Going off my experience with the first book, I should have never tried to read the second. But in this case, my literary death came down to one singular moment, one monumental sentence: Continue reading