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Shelves: literature , usa Remember me? A few months back, I freaked out about how great Donald is? I swear. Maybe a wink above depending on the trial group, especially if a lot of them came from my home state of Oklahoma. This I know. This I accept. I mean, I like to read lotsa books sometimes, and, on occasion, little snippets of the vast knowledge of various authors creeps under my skin and stays burrowed for a while. Here, the sleight of hand appears to be: excessive pomo writing tricks stirred together and ladled out, soup-kitchen style.
The form completely disregards almost all function. In fact, the form reminded me of a Delia Deetz sculpture, and even my mediocre brain managed to conclude that we were supposed to find that shit ridiculous and callow, right? Can I say pretentious? Much like a lot of the writing techniques in this novel. Let me be clear about something else: reading this book was not an enjoyable experience.
However, the rest of what I was able to sift out made me feel like I was cheating or something. Or maybe more like I was being cheated, or we would both be in it together somehow if I let myself fall into that trap of double-backwards-reverse-cheat. Like I was reading my horoscope and really having my socks knocked about with how accurate this psychic astrologer was in predicting my day. But hey, you know what? So there! Discerning a message in a lot of the garble in this story reminded me of that.
It could go a hundred different ways for a billion different people. Not that this novel is cheap, greasy pizza. Unflowy shit, but like I said: not diarrhea.
Suffice it to say that this is a largely plotless meandering of brain matter with flakes of gold in it which you can find if you feel like digging for it. However, because I am a lazy 12 year old, I will only quote the one that made me laugh the hardest. Please just keep in mind that this is the sort of reviewer you are dealing with here. Adjust your decisions accordingly. Jean-Paul Sartre is a Fartre.
A lot of what I love most could reasonably be classified as such. Trickery was afoot. Like some writing exercise that Barthelme never actually intended for anyone to take seriously though probably he did. Just wanted to make that clear. Sorry, carry on.