...especial Tomes reviewed for the purposes of your Enjouyment and Recreation
...as reviewed September the 15, 1995!
&emps;A fascinating piece of journalism by a talented guy - both establishes the brutal adminstration of awful cruelty that is inherent in circuits of power and also castrates it. It is no surprise that the circumvention of the hall of mirrors would be done by a smart fella, at a pace of persistence and in what could be seen as a death drive. His combatant fart smellas are sexually neurotic, and a part of their rewarded incarnate machismo with which they built their power structures is the very predation that is "intended" to be for their own personal life but is actually a threat inherent, a precluding qualification to executives who act on their wily, tangled and cancerous primate subconsciouses, who in seeing reflections of their innermost evils view outrite cruelty with support or indifference as to not incriminate those components left precious and insecure in those desolate parts of themselves. Ronan has a telling point at one point in the book in which he remembers, without much commentary, having treated his sister as she emerged with her story the same as he himself was being treated during his piece, in one of several efforts to deliver a little less than full condemnation for his awful but interestingly representative onetime friend and boss who purposefully attempted to bury the story, in spite of its journalistic readiness. Well worth the terrifying gander.
...as reviewed September the 9, 1994!
If you have ever in your entire life met an academic and hated them OR if you have ever looked in the mirror and felt miserable about what you saw, I think you'll get a kick out of this one. It's an exercise in narrative futility: a reader who desires completion competing with an author who hates the reader. Delightfully and eternally complex in a million meaningless ways, this novel sits at 705 pages long and refuses to use a single goddamned one to advance any sort of plot. It traps you in a funny and miserable "now" in which you have no narrative past to gaze back towards nor any single expectation for what narrative future could possibly lie ahead. It embodies the animalistic wholeness of throwing up in storytelling form while still continuing to be very comedically adept, intersplicing even a few tender moments throughout. It is a horror story about the destruction of memory and a plea with its reader, advising it to not fall into a personal, historical oblivion. My boyfriend lent me his copy for a few months while I completed it. I fucked it up by accident. I wish I fucked it up more. Rancid dogshit beauty.
...as reviewed September the 9, 1994!
A stripper in the forgotten south tells the story of her life as she sits on the slab of where her destroyed house once stood. A beautiful piece that occasionally makes character shortcuts by outsourcing truths about the author's friends and family into the main character's, but I somehow don't fault it for that. It's a gorgeous book. Throws up and kicks the ground.
Go Back Fuck Wad