I had to wonder… did this emperor have any clothes?
This pains me – I love nonlinear novels, I love American weirdos, I love the vision of desert landsI had to wonder… did this emperor have any clothes?
This pains me – I love nonlinear novels, I love American weirdos, I love the vision of desert landscape as an echo chamber of failed dreams, I love a bitter and blasé sense of humor. This tried to be all four of those things, and failed on all four counts. The shaggy-dog story is never interesting enough to hold my attention, the weirdness feels just a little bit too lapidary in its execution to feel authentic, the desert landscape is nowhere near as rapturous as a DeLillo or a McCarthy could and did make it, and the sense of humor just felt contrived. For a group of fucked up orphans, they talk an awful lot like Iowa Writers Workshop MFA candidates. ...more
It took me a while to like this. Olsen is a competent storyteller, but it all felt a little too vibes-based, without much of interest other than the fIt took me a while to like this. Olsen is a competent storyteller, but it all felt a little too vibes-based, without much of interest other than the fact that it's a story about Friderich Nietzsche. But then, I get drawn in, ready to be bored, and as Nietzsche slowly loses it, you, the reader, lose it with him. In his series of albums Everywhere at the End of Time, The Caretaker dissects a slow descent into dementia, you start with fragments of old-timey big-band music and eventually wind up hearing mostly nothing. Lance Olsen manages to accomplish something of the same thing, albeit without the emotional punch that The Caretaker does. I would say read this....more
Kate Zambreno is one of those authors that gives me hope for American fiction, an actual no holds-barred fuck-you-motherfucker writer. I should say thKate Zambreno is one of those authors that gives me hope for American fiction, an actual no holds-barred fuck-you-motherfucker writer. I should say this is a first novel for sure -- Zambreno comes out the gate hot, almost violent in her desire to experiment and make her mark -- but to me that's part of the charm. Sure, it might not be the most immaculate thing, but guess what? She has the balls to actually go out and write something that breaks the mold, which in an ambitionless literary era, is a godsend. Green Girl is still a far finer novel -- more honed, more a series of precise sniper shots rather than a spray of semi-automatic fire -- but O Fallen Angel deserves to be read too....more
A million people on the Internet love prattling on about bodies and gazes and other such pablum based on their own misinterpretations of English-languA million people on the Internet love prattling on about bodies and gazes and other such pablum based on their own misinterpretations of English-language misinterpretations of the legitimate insights of Foucault et al. But how many of these dumbs have had the courage to actually gaze at their own bodies and examine the weirdness and potential they indeed possess? Shelley Jackson has no such issues. For her, anatomy is both a grotesquerie and a playground (as it should be). These stories? They're the jizz in the coiffed hair of modern American writing, and I mean that as the highest of compliments....more
I've been a fan of Harry Mathews for years, and each of his books has an entirely different angle -- I gotta say I appreciated this not-quite-thrillerI've been a fan of Harry Mathews for years, and each of his books has an entirely different angle -- I gotta say I appreciated this not-quite-thriller quite a bit, with its echoes of Foucault's Pendulum (or if we're being declasse, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind), and its satire of the infighting and self-seriousness of the impotent French leftism of the time period, and delightfully vague middle-finger ending. I would hardly call this essential reading, but if you're a fan of Mathews or the Oulipians and their ilk more broadly, check it out....more
I'm a big advocate for the pointillist style in fiction. So I'm a natural partisan. As I continued, however, doubts arose. Why was Vincent Van Gogh inI'm a big advocate for the pointillist style in fiction. So I'm a natural partisan. As I continued, however, doubts arose. Why was Vincent Van Gogh in there at all? And as the trialogue progressed, I cared less and less, as absolutely gobsmacked as I was early on (once I settled into the style of Head in Flames, at least). Maybe it's because this is 2022, and this is well-worn territory – brilliantly covered by Ian Buruma in Murder in Amsterdam – so it felt a bit unnecessary. Still, my dude has writing chops for days, and I sincerely appreciate literary ambition and experiment, so I'm stoked to check out more of Olsen's work....more
Well, this was long. Real long. Sometimes these things are necessary – a shorter version of Ulysses or Gravity's Rainbow or Infinite Jest wouldn't havWell, this was long. Real long. Sometimes these things are necessary – a shorter version of Ulysses or Gravity's Rainbow or Infinite Jest wouldn't have worked. But Shadow Country? I'm not so sure.
On the one hand – and this is the part I liked – you get this very complete portrait of a place and a time, the Florida Everglades back when it truly was the frontier, and all of the characters that make up that place and time. This is something that particularly came together in the third book. But did it work as a novel? That I'm not so sure of. All I could think the whole time was that in the hands of Cormac McCarthy, this would have been an unqualified masterpiece....more
Hey fuckers, if you thought Paul Theroux was a bit too cheery, check out his brother. If Paul writes with a bitter cackle, Alexander writes with a stuHey fuckers, if you thought Paul Theroux was a bit too cheery, check out his brother. If Paul writes with a bitter cackle, Alexander writes with a studied sneer from a study filled with untidy stacks of books and napping cats, tulip glass of Grand Marnier in hand.
But get through the embittered monologues and sesquipedalian vocabulary and sheer density, and -- in a manner similar to a hard-mode Infinite Jest -- you'll find a warm, beating heart. Humanity and love made impossibly by the ugliness and venality of contemporary America, centered around a roadtrip awfully similar to that undertaken by one Mr. Humbert Humbert and one Ms. Dolores Haze, but set right at the point where America realized history hadn't quite ended, with as melancholy an ending as one can imagine.
This is as cult as a novel can get. At some future cocktail party, I'm sure Laura Warholic will come up, and I'll recognize someone as one of the happy few, the band of brothers, who dig this shit....more
A pretty damn uneven collection. In some of these stories, Moody proves his capabilities as a prose stylist, playing with form in the best of ways, anA pretty damn uneven collection. In some of these stories, Moody proves his capabilities as a prose stylist, playing with form in the best of ways, and in others, he indulges the worst sort of dullardry, to the points where he reads like a bad parody of David Foster Wallace or Michael Chabon. Even the best of his stories aren't as transcendent as his work in The Ice Storm, which so perfectly evoked a time and a place. ...more
I so, so wanted to like Waterbaby, but I just couldn't. I appreciated the collage of texts, the references to family lore and ghost stories, the crippI so, so wanted to like Waterbaby, but I just couldn't. I appreciated the collage of texts, the references to family lore and ghost stories, the crippling self-doubt, but it just didn't cohere at all. The more I read and the further the story got from the initial narrative of swimming and epilepsy, followed by a sudden horrifying discovery of, well... a water-baby of a sort... the less I cared. By the end of the book I was just counting down the pages....more
I love experimental fiction, I really do, with all my heart. I love when writers break with traditional narrative, embark on bold modernist missions, I love experimental fiction, I really do, with all my heart. I love when writers break with traditional narrative, embark on bold modernist missions, play with form and the book-as-object, subvert structural demands... but if you do it wrong, it's far, far worse than it would have been as a classic, linear novel.
People of Paper is less House of Leaves than it is Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which is pretty much my benchmark for how not to do experimental fiction. Salvador Plascencia has a paucity of ideas that are worth much on their own, so he jizzes all over it with level-one magical realism, typographical novelty, and metabullshit that was kinda lame even in Flann O'Brien's day (never could get into At Swim-Two-Birds...). McSweeney's published this, which should tell me everything I need to know – I found their humor pieces to be witty in my teens and grating just a few years later, and well... you can probably guess my feelings about Dave Eggers in general....more
When you have a volume of short stories (or poems or essays, for that matter), the shortcomings of an author become stark in a way they wouldn't if yoWhen you have a volume of short stories (or poems or essays, for that matter), the shortcomings of an author become stark in a way they wouldn't if you were reading each story individually. And so while a short collection of Ann Beattie stories can be a series of lovely, witty, bone-spare meditations on the minutiae of daily life, a 500-page tome is off-putting. This isn't the sort of book you should read cover to cover (which is the only way I ever read, to be honest), it's the sort you should leave on your shelf for when you're in Beattie mode, which for me is something like a late winter Sunday afternoon, the sun looking dead, weak light hitting the page....more
One of the most sinister terms in the English language in my mind is "corporate culture." The gruesomeness lies in the fact that the dehumanization isOne of the most sinister terms in the English language in my mind is "corporate culture." The gruesomeness lies in the fact that the dehumanization is covered up by superficial banality. The anxiety comes with the expectation that one is to be satisfied, nay elated, at one's lot in life, even when one's prospects for any kind of real joy or satisfaction become narrower and narrower. Ligotti's characters, well, they do the Ligotti thing and bug out in decaying cities and cavernous fluorescent-lit office interiors, and there is no reason why they shouldn't. ...more
I read Philip Roth to communicate with a past iteration of American culture -- American Pastoral is a fuckin' masterpiece, and he's written some otherI read Philip Roth to communicate with a past iteration of American culture -- American Pastoral is a fuckin' masterpiece, and he's written some other wonderfully moody stuff too, oh, and I remember, back in high school, some rather loud recitations of the jerkoff scenes in Portnoy's Complaint in a Wal-Mart checkout line.
My introduction to Roth was through my late father, who was just a few years younger, and for whom Roth was the voice of a generation, and whose ghost haunted me as I read Indignation. I heard his grousing -- he used words like "indignation" as a matter of course, his various dysfunctions and anxieties, his Miles Davis-era slang, mixed with occasional Yiddishisms from a gentile childhood in a largely Jewish neighborhood, his stories about the fear of the draft informing his first major depressive episode, his time at a dowdy, fratty Protestant college on the edge of the Ozarks awfully similar to Roth's Winesburg College. And then Philip Roth ties the story up in a stunning, stunning goddamn way. I set the book down, and was deeply saddened I couldn't call my old man up to talk about Indignation....more
I honestly don't know how I feel about The Verificationist. On the one hand, I found it to be rather silly, with the sort of tryhard sense of humor foI honestly don't know how I feel about The Verificationist. On the one hand, I found it to be rather silly, with the sort of tryhard sense of humor found in New Yorker columns by self-styled "humorists" (read: unfunny people who write in such a way that it reads as humor, even if your lips fail to crack a smile), and a dull, dull premise that didn't even seem like it could lead somewhere interesting. On the other hand, Donald Antrim tried to do something unique. Most American writers don't. I didn't much care for it, but you might. As for me, I'll need to read more Antrim's work to know if I like his writing....more
The usual Coover tropes: fairytales, fabulism, a hefty dose of sadomasochism. You see the arc of his career across this collection taken from a span oThe usual Coover tropes: fairytales, fabulism, a hefty dose of sadomasochism. You see the arc of his career across this collection taken from a span of decades, and some are definitely stronger than others. I was particularly unsure about the last story in the collection, "Invasion of the Martians" which feels like an attempt to translate the style of The Public Burning to the era of social media and the Republican Senate... it feels flailing. As Abe Simpson once said to a young Homer "I used to be with it. Then they changed what it was, and what I'm with isn't it."...more
I tried to read this years ago, a little after I'd seen the movie. I couldn't -- it was just too similar, the images were too fresh in my mind. "I'll I tried to read this years ago, a little after I'd seen the movie. I couldn't -- it was just too similar, the images were too fresh in my mind. "I'll try again in 10 years," I told myself.
10 years later...
I did it! And it really, really is one of McCarthy's best, in terms of character development, pacing, everything... and the laconic attitude towards violence that is such a hallmark of McCarthy's writing is as developed as it is in Blood Meridian. Anton Chigurh is as terrifying as ever in print, and yet there's a weird sort of pathos here. Like a device-character in a Murakami novel, he is here to serve his purpose, and does so efficiently....more
I'm not sure quite where the appeal comes from, honestly. I read The Tortilla Curtain, and found it to be a funny enough novel about Californian dipshI'm not sure quite where the appeal comes from, honestly. I read The Tortilla Curtain, and found it to be a funny enough novel about Californian dipshits... Drop City was likewise a tale of colliding cultures, in this case commune-dwellers and Alaskan survivalists. I'm really not sure what Boyle was going for. The idea of a certain set of ideals crashing headlong into the reality of life on the last frontier was already explored by Into the Wild well enough and thoroughly enough that the subject almost feels closed to me, and while I think Boyle was trying to be funny, it was a bit of a fail. Also, we already know about the contradictions and sexual inequality that plagued hippie culture -- again, this is nothing new, and it just feels like recycled tropes at this point....more
I mean, I know the Markson game by this point. And what I've learned is that sometimes his technique comes together, and sometimes it doesn't. SometimI mean, I know the Markson game by this point. And what I've learned is that sometimes his technique comes together, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes all of the bits -- many of which are gorgeous little things, or hilarious little bons mots -- just sort of turn into a sludge.
A thought... perhaps he should have combined all of his novels other than Wittgenstein's Mistress into one mega-novel, ending, naturally, with The Last Novel, which would cohere. Alternatively, if he was still alive he could have been a weird-Twitter icon. RIP David Markson, the dril of American experimental fiction. ...more
I rather loved D'Ambrosio's essay collection, Loitering, but somehow the brilliance with which he approached everyday life there doesn't translate intI rather loved D'Ambrosio's essay collection, Loitering, but somehow the brilliance with which he approached everyday life there doesn't translate into these stories. They're well-crafted, sure... and that wounds up counting for nothing. I was hoping he wouldn't write bland New Yorker fiction about things going juuuuuust a bit quirky in everyday situations, all of which eventually turn into the same damn thing. He did. ...more
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