I’ve been reading this for the past couple weeks. It’s pretty hit or miss, but there are some intriguing stories. Makes me want to write. I just feel like I’m sitting on this massive, muddy pile of life experience waiting for it to coalesce into something workable. Right now when I sit down to write, my brain is completely swamped. I can’t tie the loose ends together just yet. With distance comes perspective…
Machen > Lovecraft
Haruki Murakami (After Dark)
Currently reading this because I needed something light to fill in the gaps at training for my new job. I love Murakami…
Finished this a few days ago. Johnny Truant’s narrative became annoying because the tattoo designing, party going, lady killing character was so transparently a glamorized version of the author himself. (A common, kind of unavoidable thing, but the level of annoyance is directly proportional to how many personal fantasies are explored, haha.)
Other than that, it was excellent.
I was really surprised that I ended up appreciating the excessive (yet thankfully mostly interesting) use of mock opinions and analysis. The consensus seems to be that the inclusion of faux scholarly papers and press reviews is meant to suspend disbelief (it does), but more importantly, the huge amount of information forces the reader to become involved in order to separate the meaningful from the red herring.
And regardless of how I feel about Johnny Truant, it’s obvious that the author wrote from a pure place. Even most of Truant’s vain account came across as inspired and personal.
Chuch Palahniuk is the worst author. Fight Club was decent because it was coherent and had a cool premise, but I (regrettably) read several other books of his a few summers ago searching for what made him so popular. Book after book was just sloppily sewn together shit. I get that it’s supposed to be a sort of wry commentary on something or other, but the experience is such an awkward combination of tedious and flashy that any substance is completely lost. It’s like being shown a collection of Andy Warhol paintings and you think, “Okay, I get it,” only then to be told that you’re not allowed to leave the exhibit until you’ve stared at the collection for over 5 hours. It can’t even be considered pulp fiction - pulp may be less articulate, but at least it’s entertaining by definition.
I like to think that he knows his work is a hollow gimmick, and has made a game out of seeing how bad a book of his has to be before 16 year old pseudo-intellectuals will refuse to buy it.
