One mistake...and nothing else you ever do will matter

Snuff
Chuck Palahniuk

WARNING: PROFANITY AHEAD

For some reason I keep giving this fucker a chance. And I know why, too: Fight Club.

Not Fight Club the book, mind you; Fight Club the movie -- which isn't even the same thing, I know. But a little nagging voice in the back of my head says that the mind who produced Tyler Durden must not be all that bad, so he's gotta produce something else good soon.

WELL I WAS FUCKING WRONG.

I was going to try to review Snuff, Palahniuk's latest abortion, objectively, or at least dispassionately, but it's not going to happen. The further and further I advanced into the book, the angrier I became that I bought this turd.

I HAVE TO START USING THE LIBRARY.

But really: joke's on me, you know? And boy, it's a good one.

Oh, wait: you want to hear a bit about the book, do you? Sure. Here you go: cunt, pussy, money shot, clit, dick, cum, whatever -- those "shocking" terms are pretty much as deep as Snuff gets. And I have no objection to such terms, or to books about the porn industry, or even the porn industry itself, so long as everyone's consenting and all that -- but I DO object to shitty writing, and Snuff's got that in spades.

What's worse, it coulda been so much better. The prose hardly varies from narrator to narrator (Snuff is narrated by four wonderful individuals -- three of whom are waiting in a line of 600 men to gang-bang porn star Cassie Wright), and the characters themselves have all the depth of a wet piece of toilet paper.

However, it matters little that the voice sounds the same regardless of which character is doing the narrating, because the chapter titles tell us which character has taken the helm. Whew! Thanks, Chuck! Otherwise, we'd never have known. Worse than the lack of individual voice, though, is the writing itself, which is just plain AWFUL. Grammar -- what's that? Why write sentences that make sense? Perhaps Palahniuk is simply pandering to the intellectual level of his fans (who must be boys under 16 years of age), and so figures that writing grammatically correct sentences isn't necessary.

In a nutshell: I gotta start selling some of this shit -- maybe I should finally join Bookmooch? I mean, I gotta do something. I'M TIRED OF BUYING TURDS, GODDAMMIT.

Well, now. THIS one put me in a bad mood, eh?

Bibliolatry Scale: 1 out of 6

Where art thou, o my innocence?

Philosophy in the Boudoir
Marquis de Sade

I have a confession: I have judged a book by its cover.

But first let me say this: I am not a prude. I don’t object to porn – that is, when it’s labeled as such. I may not seek it out, but I’m not morally opposed to it. But when it’s passed off as “philosophy” – then that’s another story.

To be fair, Philosophy in the Boudoir was philosophic. But the philosophy was buried ugh too many sandwich jokes are coming ugh too many coming jokes are


SYSTEM OVERLOAD


Aherm. Let me start at the beginning. I liked the cover. I thought it was philosophy. Plus, "boudoir" is such an underrated word. So I bought the book. And, like any good reader of philosophy, I started with the introduction. But when the introduction gives away the ending, a scene of “brutal” and “truly sadistic rape,” I did what any good American would do – I skipped right to the end.

What met my poor beleaguered eyes was not so much philosophy as it was a glorification of every example of depraved behavior possible: incest, adultery, even murder. Look, I'm cool with many of the "depravities" praised by Sade: I love teh gays, so I don’t see sodomy as a problem. If you want to commit adultery be my guest, I don’t give a shit. S&M's not my bag, but whatever, baby. Neither do I care if you wanna fuck your brother, although that's just gross as far as I'm concerned. Go for it. But rape? Gang rape? Of your mother? For real?

I know how you feel, kid

You’re probably sitting there saying, “It’s the Marquis de Sade, you donkey. What did you expect?” But I saw ads for this book in several very respectable publications and the cover was just so quaint and I really didn’t think it would involve [don’t read if you’re squeamish] helping to gang rape your mother and then stitching her up to prevent any children from coming out among other things that I’m trying REALLY hard to forget and I think I might just throw out this book but I do have an aversion to throwing out books even though I did throw out that copy of the Necronomicon I was dumb enough to buy but that was for superstitious reasons and it gave me the willies just like Philosophy in the Boudoir so keeping that in mind maybe it would be okay to throw it out WHEW.

To prevent another system overload, let me at least attempt a brief overview: Philosophy in the Boudoir is a “play” written in seven “dialogues.” It begins when Madame de Saint-Ange receives notice that a young virgin, Eugenie, will soon be arriving to receive an “education” in the form of sexual awakening. Along with her brother and their friend, Dolmance, Saint-Ange will educate Eugenie in the ways of the world. Along the way, Sade drops in some of his "philosophy," namely that anything natural (and not surprisingly, Sade considers everything natural) is good.

Furthermore, Sade really doesn’t have a problem with any "sin"; he glorifies it all, even crimes like theft and murder. Regarding murder, he writes, "In short, murder is a horror, though a horror that is often necessary, never criminal, and indeed essential...the sole offense that a man can commit...is suicide."

Ah, so he does, at least, have one scruple.

Did I mention how charming the cover is? The artist is Tomer Hanuka. Yay for Tomer. Boo for Sade.

In a nutshell: My eyes! My eyes! Where art thou, o my innocence?

Bibliolatry Scale: 0 out of 6 stars

White Apples, by Jonathan Carroll

White Apples
Jonathan Carroll

A character I often fondly remember is Ellsworth Toohey from Ayn Rand's Fountainhead. As a literary critic, he delighted in championing utter shit and passing it off as literature, knowing the dumb public would eat it up like the sheep they are. The public can't tell a turd from a diamond, isn't that so? Apparently, according to those who've championed Carroll's latest literary bowel movement, White Apples.

Now, I don't know who Pat Conroy is (I have since been informed that he wrote The Prince of Tides...alllllllrighty then), nor do I know who writes book reviews for The Washington Post, but I have a sneaking suspicion they are Ellsworth in disguise. Pat Conroy had the balls to compare Jonathan Carroll to Dostoevski. DOSTOEVSKI? The man who gave us Raskolnikov? Prince Myshkin? I know--he also compared him to Calvino. I am so amazed that I have nothing funny to write about this. After sitting here endlessly thinking of a humorous analogy, I can only feel dismay that a work of such poor quality has received such glowing reviews. Maybe Conroy wants to know if anyone will call his bluff. Apparently not, as this book has received 3.5 stars on Amazon.com and an almost perfect score on Barnesandnoble.com.

Well played, Mr. Conroy. Well played, indeed.

The Washington Post, double-dog dared by Pat Conroy to take the joke still further, wrote that we should -- and I quote directly here -- "fete him." Fete him??

Damn they have balls.

Anyway, a word or two about the book. Vincent Ettrich has died and come back to life. Why did he come back? He soon finds out he was brought back by his pregnant girlfriend, because their offspring will save the world and it needs Vincent's help to do it. Along the way, they encounter crazy creatures like the spirits of dead animals and the "Eef," which is -- and I am not making this up -- A BEING CREATED OUT OF THEIR ORGASM.

Simply put, this was the lamest book I ever read. In fact, his is the lamest author picture I've ever seen. I would hope he's about to cover his face in shame, but I somehow doubt he feels at all bad about writing White Apples.

In a nutshell: Utter garbage disguised to look like a book. Don't be a sucker.

Bibliolatry Scale: 0 out of 6 stars