Friends,
This Sunday I bought a New York Times, otherwise known as The Log, because I wanted a physical book review rather than the e-version I've been reading, and I stumbled on a review of Chunk Palahniuk's new novel, Snuff. It's about a woman involved in a gangbang. It's told from the point of view of different men, only revealing themselves as Mr. (insert position in line here) doing the banging.
Anyway, the review by Lucy Ellmann is hyperbolic and fun because how it just ravages the book. This is kind of like those videos of where people get hit in the head with shovels or taking one of those pole vault poles to the genitals, in that it really isn't pleasant, at all, and nor is it dignified, but there it is just the same. Here's the first two paragraphs from the review:
What the hell is going on? The country that produced Melville, Twain and James now venerates King, Crichton, Grisham, Sebold and Palahniuk. Their subjects? Porn, crime, pop culture and an endless parade of out-of-body experiences. Their methods? Cliche, caricature and proto-Christian morality. Props? Corn chips, corpses, crucifixes. The agenda? Deceit: a dishonest throwing of the reader to the wolves. And the result? Readymade Hollywood scripts.
So not only has America tried to ruin the rest of the world with its wars, its financial meltdown and its stupid stupid food, it has allowed its own literary culture to implode. Jazz and patchwork quilts are still doing O.K., but books have descended into kitsch. I blame capitalism, Puritanism, philistinism, television and the computer.
The reviewer also goes on to question the pride of Palaniuk's readers, calling the author "Johnny One-Note," and makes the claim that "every ten year old" knows about Hitler's inflatable Arayan sex doll and sex induced embolisms.
Essentially, this reviewer hates this book from some place primal to where logic moves aside in the favor of rage reserved only for wronged, hormonal pregnant women. It's just scattershot bile. This review is kind of like feeding a baby sushi. They don't know what's going on, they just hate it, hate it, hate it so they flail around in their carrier, making that scrunched up baby face. Kind of cute sometimes.
Anyway, if you can find this review somewhere, go ahead and read it.
viva el mustache
June 10, 2008
No! I Don't Like It!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
4 comments:
Wow. I think I'm offended by this review. I actually do like Stephen King (his book On Writing is actually pretty good). I've never read Palahniuk, but from this review, I think I'd love this book at least.
And I think the subjects of Porn, Crime, and Pop Culture are all valid subjects. Corn chips, corpses, and crucifixes sound like a delightful way to set up a white trash study novel. I'm in for it.
And she blames capitalism (that pays her every month) and computers (which I'm sure was what she wrote this on). I find that funny. I'm not the most patriotic person out there, I know that. I think communism is a grand idea on paper, but it doesn't really work. My point is, if she hates American literature so much, there're roughly 104 other countries that she could live in and probably 194 more problems with literature. But that's the way it goes.
I kind of felt the same way, Jorge. I'm an owner of three of Chuck P.'s books (Fight Club, Choke, Diary) and don't find anything wrong with the computer. I just find it interesting that the reviewer is moved to this level of bizarre hating of everything.
I read Choke and quite liked it. Who doesn't want to read about people addicted to sex?
Her review reminds me of something I tell my students: Stay on the topic. If you're writing a review, I really don't care to know what you had for breakfast.
Post a Comment