I really want to love this book. It is a cult classic among literary types, unknown outside the boundaries of its cult. "Written by a self-pitying autodidact for consumption by self-pitying autodidacts," as Walter Kirn puts it in his review. A mocking narrator, a sui generis story about failure, pretentious literary references, a cover in the classic Vintage Contemporaries style, passionate fans among a tribe I want to belong to - what's not to like?
Alas, it doesn't speak to me. The narrative meanders and repeats itself rather than developing its theme (what happens when you reject bourgeois values but still measure yourself against them). Everything I said the first time I reviewed it still applies, but I'm docking it a star for failing to meet my expectations... in a thoroughly Exley-like fashion.
Alas, it doesn't speak to me. The narrative meanders and repeats itself rather than developing its theme (what happens when you reject bourgeois values but still measure yourself against them). Everything I said the first time I reviewed it still applies, but I'm docking it a star for failing to meet my expectations... in a thoroughly Exley-like fashion.
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