I'm so disappointed that Goodreads stars only go down to, "did not like it." There needs to be a star for "unbelievably horrible." I really went into this book with high hopes. And I'm shocked that it receives four and five stars from so many people. Maybe those who hate it abandon ship quickly and therefore do not review it. I would have done the same and was about to give up after the "Fan Letters" chapter but I felt like it was so glaringly, unashamedly bad that I had to finish so as to be able to critique it in it's entirety. The writer comes off as super pretentious. By the end of the first few chapters she makes it clear that only two types of books are acceptable: Russian Literature (which she obviously fell in love with in college...cliche!) and "The Virgin Suicides" honestly if I had to read her tout this book one more time I would have lost it. Everything else is trash...Kurt Vonnegut fans are creepy, pot-head morons. You can only like Salinger if you're an angsty teenager (didn't catch that? don't worry she mentions it in every chapter). Chuck Palahniuk is only for boys who can't read. Sloane Crosley is a boring New York Jewish girl exactly like every other New York Jewish girl, she isn't funny and should never have gotten a book deal (jealous much?). Charles Dickens is only for pretentious 9th graders. C.S Lewis is for people who pick their nose. Michael Pollan is for girls trying to cover up their eating disorders. Miranda July lacks substance and is for unoriginal girls. It goes on and on. I thought this was going to be a slightly kumbaya bit about loving books and reading (YAY!) But it quickly devolves into an excessively negative book with the Author focused on trashing as many authors as she possibly can. It also becomes glaringly obvious that the Author's underlying reasons for doing so are her own jealousy and insecurity. Give me a break. The Sloane Crosley dig really drove it home for me, Sloane Crosley is also a young, attractive, dark-haired, New York based, Humor writer...Hmmmm....
There's a chapter about what your children will turn out to be if you read them certain books, I was really excited to read it and thought it would be funny, nope. They are all negative and I find her conclusions hard to grasp. Harold and the Purple Crayon? Serial adulterer. Where the Wild Things Are? Navel-gazing idiot Hipster. The Wind in The Willows? Boring crusty-nosed girl who hangs out at the library. Madeline? Horrifyingly obedient/annoying church group leader. etc. etc. etc. I'm sorry, I thought we wanted children to read books...guess I was wrong. And, I might add, she offers no alternatives.
I get that the author is trying to be funny. It really, really, really does not come off that way. I am not without humor! Snarkiness! I love it! I really wanted this book to be funny. It's not. It's offensive. Lauren Leto is the wise old age of 24 and has focused her efforts on tearing down the life's work of Dickens, Salinger, Vonnegut, Austen, Lorrie Moore, insert author here. Thanks but no thanks Lauren Leto, the literary community just doesn't need this.
Also her writing is awful. The first thing I learned in a lower level creative writing class was to trust the reader. Don't feel the need to blatantly spell everything out for them. So in her chapter "The Rules of Book Club" she just does not need to flat out say, "this is in the style of the rules of fight club from the book Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk." It's painful. In another chapter she drones on about how AWFUL it is when beginning writers (in high school) try to learn from other authors. She then goes on to give tips about how to effectively copy the style of other authors. What? WHAT?! P.S. it's all a ruse, and yet another template for her to all-knowingly talk about other author's shortcomings. Joan Didion? "Be redundant and scattered." Next.
This book is really awful. I don't think I've ever hated a book so much. The author says she likes books and reading but it is hard to find evidence of that in this book. She is pretentious, negative, and thinks very highly of herself. She insults classic and contemporary literature alike simply based on her own personal taste. She also manages to insult the reader, telling them their poetry is awful and insulting their intelligence by teaching them (Gee thanks! what would I do without you, all-knowing Lauren Leto?) how to pronounce names like Kerouac, Proust, Ayn Rand, Dostoyevsky, etc. And also she teaches you how to understand the terms literary critics use like morose, cultivated, digress, inexplicable, and compelling. Wow! I wouldn't really mind either if she didn't do it in such a condescending manner and if the rest of the book wasn't proof of her glaring pretension.
She attempts to write a few self deprecating essays, perhaps in an attempt to counteract all of the snootiness. They are ineffective. They're also not funny (spoiler alert: she misspells Spaghetti in a spelling bee. GASP! She then goes on to describe how her friends and family mock her. It's the equivalent of being a 10 year old and trying to explain a family joke to your best friend's Dad). This makes it extra surprising that she doesn't think Sloane Crosley is funny, leading the reader to wonder...has she even read Sloane Crosley?...oh that's right, this is all being driven by her crazed jealousy. Got it. Everything comes full circle towards the end when she writes about how depressing it is to be an aspiring writer in New York...how disheartening it is when another (OBVIOUSLY inferior) author gets a book deal, and how negative everyone can be (hmmmm...negative you say?). Her solution is simple, to murder them all. She then gives suggestions on how to murder them...not humorous ones...poison them, shoot them in the face while they are sleeping, carry a knife always so you can stab people in the gut. Oooook, Crazy-face. I guess whacking someone with a frying pan can be considered funny if you're a cartoon character. Really breaking new ground there, bravo.
At one point in the book she goes after Sarah Vowell saying she can't believe that Vowell doesn't drink coffee and that if she also said she didn't drink liquor then the author wouldn't believe Vowell had written her own books because, Leto says, she personally can't write without one or the other. To this I would like to say, no, Lauren Leto, you can't write period.
And just so I myself do not fall victim to incessant negativity, as I have judged Leto for, I will say this: This book did inspire me in one way. Which is to start a new Goodreads shelf. I think I'll call it "zero stars." Hopefully I can come up with a better name soon.
P.S. I'd like to thank the public library of Sacramento for allowing me to spend zero monies on this book. And also for shipping it all the way from Sacramento. What a waste. Seriously, I really do have guilt about that.