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The Noble Hustle: Poker, Beef Jerky, and Death
The Noble Hustle is Pulitzer finalist Colson Whitehead’s hilarious memoir of his search for meaning at high stakes poker tables, which the author describes as “Eat, Pray, Love for depressed shut-ins.”
On one level, The Noble Hustle is a familiar species of participatory journalism--a longtime neighborhood poker player, Whitehead was given a $10,000 stake and an assignment from the online online magazine Grantland to see how far he could get in the World Series of Poker. But since it stems from the astonishing mind of Colson Whitehead (MacArthur Award-endorsed!), the book is a brilliant, hilarious, weirdly profound, and ultimately moving portrayal of--yes, it sounds overblown and ridiculous, but really!--the human condition.
After weeks of preparation that included repeated bus trips to glamorous Atlantic City, and hiring a personal trainer to toughen him up for sitting at twelve hours a stretch, the author journeyed to the gaudy wonderland that is Las Vegas – the world’s greatest “Leisure Industrial Complex” -- to try his luck in the multi-million dollar tournament. Hobbled by his mediocre playing skills and a lifelong condition known as “anhedonia” (the inability to experience pleasure) Whitehead did not – spoiler alert! - win tens of millions of dollars. But he did chronicle his progress, both literal and existential, in this unbelievably funny, uncannily accurate social satire whose main target is the author himself.
Whether you’ve been playing cards your whole life, or have never picked up a hand, you’re sure to agree that this book contains some of the best writing about beef jerky ever put to paper.
From the Hardcover edition.
Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 2014
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About the author
Colson Whitehead
40 books18.8k followersCOLSON WHITEHEAD is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of eleven works of fiction and nonfiction, and is a two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize, for The Nickel Boys and The Underground Railroad, which also won the National Book Award. A recipient of MacArthur and Guggenheim fellowships, he lives in New York City.
Harlem Shuffle is the first book in The Harlem Trilogy. The second, Crook Manifesto, will be published in 2023.
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November 1, 2021
Colson Whitehead is quickly becoming one of my favourite writers. Like the late John Updike, everything he writes, even when it’s about out-of-left-field or seemingly light subjects, is thoughtful and beautifully phrased. There's always a sly, cheeky wit underscoring his polished prose.
This book is adapted from a long article he wrote for the online magazine Grantland in July of 2011.
The magazine staked him $10,000 to play at the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. Nice gig, right? Keep in mind: that was also his writing fee. But there was the chance that he could make it to the fabled final table to play for millions in prize money, and the magazine assured him he could keep the winnings.
A casual player – he had a friendly weekly game going in his 20s and now played regularly with his other writer buddies in Brooklyn – Whitehead had never competed in a casino tournament before. And so six weeks before Vegas, he began training, taking buses to Atlantic City to play in smaller tournaments, hiring a “coach” (Helen Ellis, a tournament veteran and also a novelist) to give him tips and even locating a personal trainer to help prepare him for sitting at a poker table for hours on end.
Whitehead says he’s always had a great poker face – mostly because he’s “half dead inside.” And while people might not be able to read him (needless to say, he doesn't resemble the typical, paunchy middle-aged white player), he’s good at studying the others around the table, whom he sums up with lots of humour and insight.
In between quick trips to Atlantic City, we get background info on how the game has changed, especially since the advent of televised WSP Texas Hold’em tournaments and online poker playing sites, which have introduced a new breed of younger player into the tourneys.
And we get details about Whitehead’s life as well. Those Atlantic City jaunts were crammed in between dropping his daughter off at school and then picking her up later. (He was recently divorced.)
One of my favourite chapters, excerpted in Harper’s , chronicles a post-college cross-country trip with his friends Dan and Darren (wait until the end to find out Darren’s last name) so that Darren and Colson could write the “American Southwest” section for the Let’s Go series of travel guides, which of course included Vegas. It’s a beautiful chapter, capturing the piss and vinegar of young adulthood, the gaudiness of the Vegas strip and the fitting observation that life itself could be seen as a poker game (wait for the right cards and then play them).
While the book sometimes feels like exactly what it is – a padded-out magazine piece – it’s still fun, informative and really well written. It’s no spoiler that the author doesn’t make it to that final table; like Rocky Balboa, he might not win but he sticks it out, bruised, with his dignity intact.
The book also chronicles Whitehead’s gradual maturity, especially in his relationship to his young daughter, from whom he was separated for a couple of weeks while he was in the weird, arid wilderness of Sin City.
Whatever your poker knowledge, you’ll get something out of this book. (And Whitehead refers to a lot of previous guides throughout.) It’s worth gambling a bit of money and time on.
This book is adapted from a long article he wrote for the online magazine Grantland in July of 2011.
The magazine staked him $10,000 to play at the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. Nice gig, right? Keep in mind: that was also his writing fee. But there was the chance that he could make it to the fabled final table to play for millions in prize money, and the magazine assured him he could keep the winnings.
A casual player – he had a friendly weekly game going in his 20s and now played regularly with his other writer buddies in Brooklyn – Whitehead had never competed in a casino tournament before. And so six weeks before Vegas, he began training, taking buses to Atlantic City to play in smaller tournaments, hiring a “coach” (Helen Ellis, a tournament veteran and also a novelist) to give him tips and even locating a personal trainer to help prepare him for sitting at a poker table for hours on end.
Whitehead says he’s always had a great poker face – mostly because he’s “half dead inside.” And while people might not be able to read him (needless to say, he doesn't resemble the typical, paunchy middle-aged white player), he’s good at studying the others around the table, whom he sums up with lots of humour and insight.
In between quick trips to Atlantic City, we get background info on how the game has changed, especially since the advent of televised WSP Texas Hold’em tournaments and online poker playing sites, which have introduced a new breed of younger player into the tourneys.
And we get details about Whitehead’s life as well. Those Atlantic City jaunts were crammed in between dropping his daughter off at school and then picking her up later. (He was recently divorced.)
One of my favourite chapters, excerpted in Harper’s , chronicles a post-college cross-country trip with his friends Dan and Darren (wait until the end to find out Darren’s last name) so that Darren and Colson could write the “American Southwest” section for the Let’s Go series of travel guides, which of course included Vegas. It’s a beautiful chapter, capturing the piss and vinegar of young adulthood, the gaudiness of the Vegas strip and the fitting observation that life itself could be seen as a poker game (wait for the right cards and then play them).
While the book sometimes feels like exactly what it is – a padded-out magazine piece – it’s still fun, informative and really well written. It’s no spoiler that the author doesn’t make it to that final table; like Rocky Balboa, he might not win but he sticks it out, bruised, with his dignity intact.
The book also chronicles Whitehead’s gradual maturity, especially in his relationship to his young daughter, from whom he was separated for a couple of weeks while he was in the weird, arid wilderness of Sin City.
Whatever your poker knowledge, you’ll get something out of this book. (And Whitehead refers to a lot of previous guides throughout.) It’s worth gambling a bit of money and time on.
January 29, 2022
Poker eminence Doyle Brunson called Hold'em “the Cadillac of poker,” and I was only qualified to steer a Segway. In one of the fiction-writing manuals, it says that there are only two stories: a hero goes on a journey, and a stranger comes to town. I don't know. This being life, and not literature, we'll have to make do with this: A middle-aged man, already bowing and half broken under his psychic burdens, decides to take on the stress of being one of the most unqualified players in the history of the Big Game. A hapless loser goes on a journey, a strange man comes to gamble.In 2011, ESPN’s now-defunct magazine Grantland (RIP) made an offer to a young writer who was well-known in literary circles but not yet to the general public: we’ll give you the $10,000 buy-in for the Main Event of the 2011 World Series of Poker (very importantly, Presented by Jack Links Beef Jerky) if you’ll write about your experience for the magazine. For Colson Whitehead, who had just finished writing the wildly underrated Zone One, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. And that is how The Noble Hustle: Poker, Beef Jerky, and Death, a poker memoir written by arguably the most talented writer on the planet, came to be.
Do you have to like watching poker, or even know the rules of poker, to enjoy The Noble Hustle? Not at all. Mr. Whitehead explains the rules you need to know. And like most sports stories, the book is about the people—mainly him and the emotional turmoil he was going through at the time—not the game itself. It is funny throughout, and his observations about Las Vegas and America are often profound.
The Noble Hustle was surely inspired by Positively Fifth Street. James McManus was sent by Harper’s Magazine to cover the 2000 WSOP Main Event and the trial of two people accused of murdering the tournament’s host, casino owner Ted Binion. Once in Vegas, he spent some of his advance on a satellite tournament, won a seat in the Main Event, and went on a miracle run that took him through a field of over 500 players all the way to the final table. It’s a great book too, but much more about Vegas and the trial and the tournament, and less introspective than this book. By 2011, after Chris Moneymaker and the online poker boom, almost 7,000 players had entered the Main Event, so Mr. Whitehead never had a realistic chance to make that kind of miracle run. But his tournament results are beside the point. The Noble Hustle is truly about the journey, not the destination, with brilliant writing, humor, and whip-smart observations on every page. Recommended.
November 12, 2017
prendi un intellettuale newyorkese con la usuale ironia in dotazione, e buttalo nel mezzo di un addestramento tra casinò e gioco d'azzardo. ne esce questa originale opera dalle parti del reportage, che mi ha accompagnato trasversalmente per circa un mese. una sconclusionata frequentazione che, a dispetto delle aspettative sul tema, mi lascia mediamente soddisfatta.
prima di tutto perché colson whitehead scrive francamente bene: il washington post l'ha definito tom wolfe incrociato con thomas pynchon. e anche se non sono troppo pratica di nessuno dei due, garantisco che a leggersi fa la sua figura. secondo poi, per la mia perversa attitudine di farmi sedurre sovente più dal contorno che dal piatto principale. e qui accanto al poker c'è abbondanza di spunti di riflessione sulla natura umana, e sulla sottospecie uomo-americano-alle-prese-col-one-man-show (atlantic city e las vegas servono chiaramente solo da copertura). terzo fattore da coming out: sotto sotto siamo tutti alla ricerca di occasioni socialmente riconosciute per indossare gli occhiali neri quando siamo al chiuso, via.
chiudo con l'unica occasione che avrò nella vita per citare adriano celentano.
- va bene, questo piatto è tuo. ma levami una curiosità: io avevo quattro donne e tu?
- tre sette.
- vuoi scherzare...
- sì, ne avevo due.
prima di tutto perché colson whitehead scrive francamente bene: il washington post l'ha definito tom wolfe incrociato con thomas pynchon. e anche se non sono troppo pratica di nessuno dei due, garantisco che a leggersi fa la sua figura. secondo poi, per la mia perversa attitudine di farmi sedurre sovente più dal contorno che dal piatto principale. e qui accanto al poker c'è abbondanza di spunti di riflessione sulla natura umana, e sulla sottospecie uomo-americano-alle-prese-col-one-man-show (atlantic city e las vegas servono chiaramente solo da copertura). terzo fattore da coming out: sotto sotto siamo tutti alla ricerca di occasioni socialmente riconosciute per indossare gli occhiali neri quando siamo al chiuso, via.
chiudo con l'unica occasione che avrò nella vita per citare adriano celentano.
- va bene, questo piatto è tuo. ma levami una curiosità: io avevo quattro donne e tu?
- tre sette.
- vuoi scherzare...
- sì, ne avevo due.
August 5, 2014
This might be an unpopular opinion [all the accolades and awards it is getting puts me on a limb with my opinion] but the only reason I got through this annoying book by Colson Whitehead was that it was short. I have attempted to read Whitehead before and always stop in frustration regarding his over-written, trying too hard style...and that is the same with this bit of non-fiction about poker. Whitehead's nowhere near as humorous as he believes he is [I find him terribly unfunny] as he goes on endless tangents halfway related to poker that draw us into his non-poker life. I know very little about this world & when finished, still didn't know anything. Whitehead's style is so full of himself & ego-connected that every page I got the sense his main goal was trying to prove to us how witty, smart, funny he is rather than writing about poker. This book did absolutely nothing for me in taking me into the subculture of poker, it isn't suspenseful in the least and I couldn't give a dang about what happened to Whitehead when he finally gets to the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas.
September 8, 2016
While poker has never really been my thing, Colson Whitehead's writing has always *very* much been my thing. So it is surprising to me that I missed sections of this book, which were originally published on Grantland. I should go to that website more often.
Anytime Whitehead is at a poker table, or talking to one of his poker mentors, this book is on fire. One of his "instructors," known just as Coach, especially spoke to me. A woman in her 60s who exploits sweater sets and pearl earrings for setting her competitors off-kilter, she is the sort of character you want to star in her own series of novels, hopefully solving murders, all with card-themed names. (Suggestion! The Queen of Hearts Killers. Literary agents, MAKE THIS HAPPEN.)
I was less excited by the family drama, although by the end Whitehead had won me over to his Land of Anhedonia. Fingers crossed that Random House will mail out promotion shirts with the country's logo on it.
Anytime Whitehead is at a poker table, or talking to one of his poker mentors, this book is on fire. One of his "instructors," known just as Coach, especially spoke to me. A woman in her 60s who exploits sweater sets and pearl earrings for setting her competitors off-kilter, she is the sort of character you want to star in her own series of novels, hopefully solving murders, all with card-themed names. (Suggestion! The Queen of Hearts Killers. Literary agents, MAKE THIS HAPPEN.)
I was less excited by the family drama, although by the end Whitehead had won me over to his Land of Anhedonia. Fingers crossed that Random House will mail out promotion shirts with the country's logo on it.
June 2, 2014
"Eat, Pray, Love for depressed shut-ins" is the self-applied description of this relentlessly self-aware, self-loathing tract covering mostly poker, with forays into beef jerky, death, and other topics of pressing interest. Colson Whitehead casts himself as sad-sack-in-chief, bringing us along on his explorations of some of America's most notable sad-sack ports of call, like Atlantic City, Vegas, and the New York Port Authority bus station. All the while, he's preparing (after a fashion) to play in the World Series of Poker, the Main Event to which he's been staked the $10K entry fee by Grantland magazine.
It's funny how magazines often seem to ask novelists to go on these assignments. Novelists are usually terrible journalists. They hate talking to people, so they stand by inertly while the story, whatever that may be, happens invisibly around them. CW isn't Tom Wolfe, rocking up in a cream-colored pinstripe suit and charming the juicy inside dope out of everyone in a ten mile radius. But novelists are excellent observers, and CW is practiced with the succinct description and telling detail. The risk you always run with these type of projects (I'm going to go experience this thing, and then filter it through my trenchant novelist's lens) is that nothing particularly exceptional will happen. And that is an issue here. You can tell pretty early on, by the way the book is paced, that there's no "Miracle at the Rio" on tap for later. However, with a few structural tricks CW manages to wring some tension from the finale.
Mostly, you're carried through by the one-liners and sarcastic asides. He keeps it light--well, darkly light. Looming in the background are his recent divorce and his struggles with being a parent, but he mostly steers clear of those deep waters. For the reader they provide a little shading as we coast through this hybrid gimmick-memoir ("My Year as a Gambling Addict") and New Journalism fishbowl report ("Slouching Towards the Amazon Room"). It's probably for the best. The book is fun, and that's all it really needs to be. I don't need another agonized search for meaning. That's how these things usually work: somebody spends a few months shearing alpaca and then strains every mental fiber to explain how this taught them about intimacy. CW's already given up on meaning (and intimacy), so his final lesson to impart is that "everything is a disaster."
I learned a bit about poker. Not much, really. Which is fine. My interest in poker is null, so I was happy to learn enough to soak up CW's exploits. I'll forget it soon. What I'll remember are certain images, like CW's dauntless ergonomic chair, the "galleon [he] had sailed through books and books..." Or his defense of Disneyland: "It brings joy to millions and tutors children about the corporate, overbranded world they've been born into."
I don't know if this book will bring joy to anyone--that would violate numerous Anhedonian statutes--but in some way it does tutor us on the world. Everything is a disaster. You've only got so much M, and when your M gets low, you have to push. Most of the time, pushing means death. Most of the time, you push and the world pushes back, harder. But sometimes you push, and you take the pot.
It's funny how magazines often seem to ask novelists to go on these assignments. Novelists are usually terrible journalists. They hate talking to people, so they stand by inertly while the story, whatever that may be, happens invisibly around them. CW isn't Tom Wolfe, rocking up in a cream-colored pinstripe suit and charming the juicy inside dope out of everyone in a ten mile radius. But novelists are excellent observers, and CW is practiced with the succinct description and telling detail. The risk you always run with these type of projects (I'm going to go experience this thing, and then filter it through my trenchant novelist's lens) is that nothing particularly exceptional will happen. And that is an issue here. You can tell pretty early on, by the way the book is paced, that there's no "Miracle at the Rio" on tap for later. However, with a few structural tricks CW manages to wring some tension from the finale.
Mostly, you're carried through by the one-liners and sarcastic asides. He keeps it light--well, darkly light. Looming in the background are his recent divorce and his struggles with being a parent, but he mostly steers clear of those deep waters. For the reader they provide a little shading as we coast through this hybrid gimmick-memoir ("My Year as a Gambling Addict") and New Journalism fishbowl report ("Slouching Towards the Amazon Room"). It's probably for the best. The book is fun, and that's all it really needs to be. I don't need another agonized search for meaning. That's how these things usually work: somebody spends a few months shearing alpaca and then strains every mental fiber to explain how this taught them about intimacy. CW's already given up on meaning (and intimacy), so his final lesson to impart is that "everything is a disaster."
I learned a bit about poker. Not much, really. Which is fine. My interest in poker is null, so I was happy to learn enough to soak up CW's exploits. I'll forget it soon. What I'll remember are certain images, like CW's dauntless ergonomic chair, the "galleon [he] had sailed through books and books..." Or his defense of Disneyland: "It brings joy to millions and tutors children about the corporate, overbranded world they've been born into."
I don't know if this book will bring joy to anyone--that would violate numerous Anhedonian statutes--but in some way it does tutor us on the world. Everything is a disaster. You've only got so much M, and when your M gets low, you have to push. Most of the time, pushing means death. Most of the time, you push and the world pushes back, harder. But sometimes you push, and you take the pot.
June 12, 2014
Overall, pretty fantastic, but I want to talk about it in context with this completely unrelated book about creative nonfiction, the thesis of which is that it's okay to fabricate parts of your nonfiction to make it interesting, because otherwise no one will read or remember it, and oblivion does no great service to The Truth.
Instead of a-factual embellishment, Whitehead uses personality. (And a constant stream of decorative twitches that are obviously for comedy, but still help to set the scene.) He makes this story about poker tournaments also half about him. So you have impact from the comedy + impact from the personality -- and why isn't that a better solution to making your nonfiction stand out?
For example, here's Whitehead describing the location for a low-rent poker tournament.
"Harrah's Atlantic City WSOP stage was your typical meeting space in a mid-price hotel, windowless and dingy. Today it's poker. Net week it'll be a Chia Pet regional sales conference, a franchise meeting for Bespoke Snuggies, or an all-day Just Be Yourself self-actualization seminar, for which the doors will probably be chained shut until you sign up for the pricey Steps 1-12 workbooks."
So, we get it, it's got that depressing air of impermanence and insignificance. To illustrate the same atmosphere John D'Agata style, you just make up the name of a lame conference that will occupy the space next, or pull something from the hotel's past lineup and tell the reader that it was scheduled to start the next week. As a reader, I vote for the Whitehead method, please. When I want an entertaining and memorable read, I'll take a heavy voice (and sometimes overbearing comedy) over the slipperiness of outright fact-substitution.
Rant over. I realize this is probably a non-issue, really, but I think about it with especially engrossing nonfiction.
Instead of a-factual embellishment, Whitehead uses personality. (And a constant stream of decorative twitches that are obviously for comedy, but still help to set the scene.) He makes this story about poker tournaments also half about him. So you have impact from the comedy + impact from the personality -- and why isn't that a better solution to making your nonfiction stand out?
For example, here's Whitehead describing the location for a low-rent poker tournament.
"Harrah's Atlantic City WSOP stage was your typical meeting space in a mid-price hotel, windowless and dingy. Today it's poker. Net week it'll be a Chia Pet regional sales conference, a franchise meeting for Bespoke Snuggies, or an all-day Just Be Yourself self-actualization seminar, for which the doors will probably be chained shut until you sign up for the pricey Steps 1-12 workbooks."
So, we get it, it's got that depressing air of impermanence and insignificance. To illustrate the same atmosphere John D'Agata style, you just make up the name of a lame conference that will occupy the space next, or pull something from the hotel's past lineup and tell the reader that it was scheduled to start the next week. As a reader, I vote for the Whitehead method, please. When I want an entertaining and memorable read, I'll take a heavy voice (and sometimes overbearing comedy) over the slipperiness of outright fact-substitution.
Rant over. I realize this is probably a non-issue, really, but I think about it with especially engrossing nonfiction.
May 7, 2014
Although I admit I would read absolutely anything Colson Whitehead writes, when I picked this book off a very deep TBR pile, I said, poker? Really? I'm doomed with this book. I know absolutely nothing about poker--in fact, I have to think really hard to name all four suits of cards (card playing wasn't A Thing in my house when I was growing up, and I have never had an affinity for card games. Every summer on in-law vacation my MIL gets very annoyed when I choose to sit on the couch and read instead of playing euchre.) The excellence of this book--a very entertaining story of the author's trip to the World Series of Poker as a writing assignment for Grantland--is, you can be like me, and absolutely care not a whit for cards, and still love every word. If I marked every line I adored, there would be highlighter marks bleeding from every page. Likely my favorite, because it applies to me: "I'd never been much of an athlete, due to a physical condition I'd had since birth (unathleticism.) Perhaps if there were a sport centered around lying on your couch in a neurotic stupor all day, I'd take an interest." I actually enjoyed learning more about a sport about which I knew absolutely nothing other than occasionally it shows people on ESPN wearing sunglasses in a very dark room at night. Loved it!
Read
August 5, 2020A Pulitzer finalist. Along with The Biggest Bluff by Maria Konnikova, this terrific book has inspired me to want to learn to play poker. Wish me luck.
August 17, 2022
This book was a good read. It really teaches you how to read people as well as your cards. In this book the author was hired to play a ternament in Las Vegas NV. This was a world best players ternament. The author was thrown to the fishes as it were. I recommend this book highly.
October 27, 2016
I really enjoyed Colson Whitehead's memoir about the time he spent playing in the World Series of Poker, but almost a month after finishing it, I'm having a hell of a time articulating why.
Whitehead freely admits he isn't that great of a poker player—his greatest advantage seems to be his deadpan expression, a hard-to-read poker face he presents to the world all the time, not just at the card table. When a magazine agreed to bankroll his entry fee in the tournament, he wasn't in a great place in his life, newly divorced and a little aimless professionally and creatively. He spends a good chunk of page space talking about how dreary his life was at the time.
How is that fun reading?
I've concluded that what it comes down to is Whitehead's voice. He's so dry and witty, and while he may complain at times, he always does so with an ironic glance in the mirror first. He knows he's a little bit of a sad sack, and if he laughs at himself first, it gives us permission to laugh too. Just be warned, his humor is very much on the cerebral side. It's not the kind of word play that causes spit-takes. It's the kind that makes you smile, slyly, with just one side of your mouth. If you have a mustache to twirl and a cat to pet, you could do those things too.
I personally have spent more time than I care to admit watching televised poker tournaments. I was in college when Texas Hold 'Em exploded in popularity, and you could waste hours upon hours of your day watching poker “celebrities” on ESPN trying to outwit and outbluff each other into the big money. I also played in a home game for a while, and was bad enough to think I was pretty good. So I recognized a lot of the names Whitehead dropped in the book, which was kind of fun but also kind of sad, to think how many brain cells I've used up on something like poker. Based on this book, I think that's pretty much how Whitehead feels about his poker experience, too.
I know I'm becoming a broken record when it comes to audio books, and if that's not your thing I totally respect that, but this is yet another book where the audio version really added to my enjoyment. First of all because Whitehead has a lovely deep voice and is a fantastic reader, but also because his sardonic vocal tone perfectly matches the tone of the book. They're his words, after all, and he knows exactly how to deliver them for maximum—yet deadpan—effect. I think some of the jokes are subtle enough that they could fall flat if you just read them off the page without knowing much about Colson Whitehead or his darkly funny outlook on life.
More book recommendations by me at www.readingwithhippos.com
Whitehead freely admits he isn't that great of a poker player—his greatest advantage seems to be his deadpan expression, a hard-to-read poker face he presents to the world all the time, not just at the card table. When a magazine agreed to bankroll his entry fee in the tournament, he wasn't in a great place in his life, newly divorced and a little aimless professionally and creatively. He spends a good chunk of page space talking about how dreary his life was at the time.
How is that fun reading?
I've concluded that what it comes down to is Whitehead's voice. He's so dry and witty, and while he may complain at times, he always does so with an ironic glance in the mirror first. He knows he's a little bit of a sad sack, and if he laughs at himself first, it gives us permission to laugh too. Just be warned, his humor is very much on the cerebral side. It's not the kind of word play that causes spit-takes. It's the kind that makes you smile, slyly, with just one side of your mouth. If you have a mustache to twirl and a cat to pet, you could do those things too.
I personally have spent more time than I care to admit watching televised poker tournaments. I was in college when Texas Hold 'Em exploded in popularity, and you could waste hours upon hours of your day watching poker “celebrities” on ESPN trying to outwit and outbluff each other into the big money. I also played in a home game for a while, and was bad enough to think I was pretty good. So I recognized a lot of the names Whitehead dropped in the book, which was kind of fun but also kind of sad, to think how many brain cells I've used up on something like poker. Based on this book, I think that's pretty much how Whitehead feels about his poker experience, too.
I know I'm becoming a broken record when it comes to audio books, and if that's not your thing I totally respect that, but this is yet another book where the audio version really added to my enjoyment. First of all because Whitehead has a lovely deep voice and is a fantastic reader, but also because his sardonic vocal tone perfectly matches the tone of the book. They're his words, after all, and he knows exactly how to deliver them for maximum—yet deadpan—effect. I think some of the jokes are subtle enough that they could fall flat if you just read them off the page without knowing much about Colson Whitehead or his darkly funny outlook on life.
More book recommendations by me at www.readingwithhippos.com
September 17, 2024
Anyone who knows me will be surprised to hear that I found this book too acerbic, too cynical, too judgemental. I am often "too" all of those things, but even I have my limits. The writing here is good, the subject is interesting, and Whitehead is often very funny (in a rueful and/or cutting way.) Quickly though it became hard to hang out with him. It was like a buddy movie starring a brilliant depressed writer and his faithful companions Despair and Misanthropy. Only when he spoke about his daughter (referred to as "The Kid") did a glimmer of hope, a sliver of optimism, and a bucket full of love show through. It was not enough to temper Whitehead's Colson Whitehead character who was like a mashup of Schopenhauer and Larry David. I am not sad I read this, but it could have been so much better with less snark or maybe more Lexapro.
August 7, 2014
Mom always said profanity is evidence of a limited vocabulary which may be why I am sensitive to it. Not that it does not have a place in writing and in life, but Whitehead, like many Millennial writers tends to use it as casual adverbs and adjectives and this overuse becomes wearing as you move through the pages. The book itself seems a bit forced. I found out that it is an "expansion" of a magazine article and feels like it. A title that would have worked is "But I digress ..." since he leads us down so many side streets. Some of the poker stuff is interesting but it is a thin veneer on the workings of the pro circuit.
January 7, 2020
What even is this book. At the outset, I found The Noble Hustle surprisingly laugh-out-loud funny. As it continues, I generally thought it was humorous (so, less funny, but still entertaining). But. But. I knew this wasn't written by just anyone. I went in knowing it was by an author whose work has impressed me. In fact, I listened to the narration by Colson f**king Whitehead himself. You know, the MacArthur genius who wrote arguably two of the best fiction books I've read in the past decade?
So. Yeah. In general you can usually get me with a bad joke. But if you're that guy? The genius writer dude? And you're the one cracking bad jokes as often as you can shoehorn 'em in? I'm probably in. Whitehead himself said he wrote this as more of a humor book than a poker book - and, toward the end, he compares it to a 70s sports movie (so you don't have to like cards to like the book). The Noble Hustle is all over the map, really, and this isn't a fair review but guess what? It was never going to be a fair review because I'm a Whitehead fan and he wrote this silly book 5 years ago and I picked this one up when I was in the mood for dry humor. Which is always.
You probably won't learn anything about poker from this one. But you might just enjoy the ride. After all, Whitehead refers to it as "Eat, Pray, Love for depressed shut-ins."
"The table next to me ordered another bucket of 40s. They had their expedition and I had mine."
So. Yeah. In general you can usually get me with a bad joke. But if you're that guy? The genius writer dude? And you're the one cracking bad jokes as often as you can shoehorn 'em in? I'm probably in. Whitehead himself said he wrote this as more of a humor book than a poker book - and, toward the end, he compares it to a 70s sports movie (so you don't have to like cards to like the book). The Noble Hustle is all over the map, really, and this isn't a fair review but guess what? It was never going to be a fair review because I'm a Whitehead fan and he wrote this silly book 5 years ago and I picked this one up when I was in the mood for dry humor. Which is always.
You probably won't learn anything about poker from this one. But you might just enjoy the ride. After all, Whitehead refers to it as "Eat, Pray, Love for depressed shut-ins."
"The table next to me ordered another bucket of 40s. They had their expedition and I had mine."
December 28, 2019
Nel 2011, lo scrittore americano Colson Whitehead viene inviato dal magazine Grantland alle World Series of Poker. L’obiettivo del giornale è fargli scrivere un reportage. Whitehead è un appassionato di poker, ma soltanto a un livello amatoriale: non conosce la teoria, gioca male in modo intuitivo a casa con gli amici. Non ha mai partecipato a un torneo. Grantland gli paga la quota di partecipazione (10.000 dollari), le altre spese sono a carico di Whitehead ma potrà tenersi quello che vincerà, se riuscirà a qualificarsi per un premio.
La nobile arte del bluff è un memoir che racconta l’esperienza di Whitehead col poker, mettendo al centro della storia questo episodio. Vista la proposta di Grantland, Whitehead inizia a studiare e allenarsi per le World Series, conscio di essere un dilettante. Il libro contiene il racconto di questa preparazione, la cronaca della sua partecipazione al torneo, incisi autobiografici sulla vita dello scrittore, sulla sua giovinezza, sulla posizione che occupa in quel momento nella vita.
Whitehead adotta uno stile sarcastico, tra lo sbruffone e il blasé, per raccontare questo viaggio nelle World Series dei professionisti e dei giocatori accaniti. Come fa notare la recensione del New York Times, in questo memoir pokeristico non c’è una grande posta in gioco: Whitehead non investe grosse cifre di denaro, ci mette il suo tempo e il suo impegno, ma in sostanza non ha nulla da perdere. Non è nemmeno tanto una questione di orgoglio, visto che Whitehead non è un giocatore esperto e nessuno si aspetta granché da lui.
La narrazione segue il filo esile della partecipazione alle World Series. Esile perché questo evento funge più che altro da pretesto per raccontare tanti altri aspetti, del poker e della formazione di Whitehead con le carte. Suona tutto un po’ forzato, però. Le parti avvincenti del racconto, quelle che riguardano i veri e propri avvenimenti pokeristici, sono continuamente interrotti da parti descrittive non sempre altrettanto interessanti. Funziona tutta la storia di Whitehead con la sua “preparatrice atletica”, per esempio, che anticipa cronologicamente l’arrivo dello scrittore a Las Vegas. Molti degli incisi, però, ostacolano la scioltezza del racconto e ogni tanto sembrano quasi dei momenti di infodump (i paragrafi sulle star del poker che scrivono sui social, per esempio).
Un’altra cosa che non mi ha convinta per nulla è il modo in cui Whitehead parla di se stesso. Il libro inizia con la frase d’effetto: “Ho una faccia da poker perché sono mezzo morto dentro”, che prelude a una caratterizzazione di sé che poi non arriva mai per davvero. Non conosciamo davvero Whitehead dal suo racconto. Continua a ripetere cose che lo definirebbero come persona lugubre e solitaria, ma poi quello le sue azioni lo mostrano diverso rispetto a ciò che dice. Per esempio, tornando ai social: fa battute su come Twitter gli piaccia perché 140 battute è il suo limite preferito quando si tratta di interazioni umane. Poi però quello che traspare di lui non conferma mai questa misantropia sbandierata o una difficoltà ad associarsi agli altri, anzi. Racconta di episodi e abitudini in cui lo vediamo alle prese con amici e soci, artisti e scrittori, con cui viaggia, si confronta, gioca a carte. Il lato “morto dentro” di queste esperienze non viene mai fuori.
A mio parere, questo libro è soprattutto un documento d’epoca che scatta la fotografia di quel momento in cui il poker Texas Hold’em era diventato una cosa gigantesca, che tutti conoscevano, che veniva giocato in tutto il mondo, che generava trasmissioni televisive e piattaforme online, produceva personaggi pubblici, i grandi professionisti, la cui notorietà somigliava a quella dei campioni sportivi. È quel periodo in cui il Texas Hold’em si è diffuso anche dalle nostre parti, tant’è che io stessa conoscevo molte delle cose di cui Whitehead parla nel libro.
In questo senso ho notato che non c’è un grosso sforzo divulgativo da parte di Whitehead. Le metafore e le similitudini che usa per spiegare il gioco ai profani sono poco comprensibili a chi non conosca già le cose di cui parla. Ne consiglio la lettura solo a chi, come me, ha vissuto quel periodo in cui il Texas Hold’em è diventato un fenomeno di massa e che ne conosce già il mondo e il lessico.
Il Los Angeles Times giudica il libro un “articolo di giornale fatto di steroidi” e suggerisce che se Whitehead avesse usato la sua storia alle WSOP per raccontare qualcosa di più personale (come il fallimento del suo matrimonio, che Whitehead cita spesso durante la narrazione, senza approfondire), allora il libro sarebbe stato significativo. Sono critiche che condivido, perché questo romanzo, seppure breve, non riesce mai a decidere cosa vorrebbe essere e a chi dovrebbe essere destinato. Complessivamente l'ho trovato noioso.
La nobile arte del bluff è un memoir che racconta l’esperienza di Whitehead col poker, mettendo al centro della storia questo episodio. Vista la proposta di Grantland, Whitehead inizia a studiare e allenarsi per le World Series, conscio di essere un dilettante. Il libro contiene il racconto di questa preparazione, la cronaca della sua partecipazione al torneo, incisi autobiografici sulla vita dello scrittore, sulla sua giovinezza, sulla posizione che occupa in quel momento nella vita.
Whitehead adotta uno stile sarcastico, tra lo sbruffone e il blasé, per raccontare questo viaggio nelle World Series dei professionisti e dei giocatori accaniti. Come fa notare la recensione del New York Times, in questo memoir pokeristico non c’è una grande posta in gioco: Whitehead non investe grosse cifre di denaro, ci mette il suo tempo e il suo impegno, ma in sostanza non ha nulla da perdere. Non è nemmeno tanto una questione di orgoglio, visto che Whitehead non è un giocatore esperto e nessuno si aspetta granché da lui.
La narrazione segue il filo esile della partecipazione alle World Series. Esile perché questo evento funge più che altro da pretesto per raccontare tanti altri aspetti, del poker e della formazione di Whitehead con le carte. Suona tutto un po’ forzato, però. Le parti avvincenti del racconto, quelle che riguardano i veri e propri avvenimenti pokeristici, sono continuamente interrotti da parti descrittive non sempre altrettanto interessanti. Funziona tutta la storia di Whitehead con la sua “preparatrice atletica”, per esempio, che anticipa cronologicamente l’arrivo dello scrittore a Las Vegas. Molti degli incisi, però, ostacolano la scioltezza del racconto e ogni tanto sembrano quasi dei momenti di infodump (i paragrafi sulle star del poker che scrivono sui social, per esempio).
Un’altra cosa che non mi ha convinta per nulla è il modo in cui Whitehead parla di se stesso. Il libro inizia con la frase d’effetto: “Ho una faccia da poker perché sono mezzo morto dentro”, che prelude a una caratterizzazione di sé che poi non arriva mai per davvero. Non conosciamo davvero Whitehead dal suo racconto. Continua a ripetere cose che lo definirebbero come persona lugubre e solitaria, ma poi quello le sue azioni lo mostrano diverso rispetto a ciò che dice. Per esempio, tornando ai social: fa battute su come Twitter gli piaccia perché 140 battute è il suo limite preferito quando si tratta di interazioni umane. Poi però quello che traspare di lui non conferma mai questa misantropia sbandierata o una difficoltà ad associarsi agli altri, anzi. Racconta di episodi e abitudini in cui lo vediamo alle prese con amici e soci, artisti e scrittori, con cui viaggia, si confronta, gioca a carte. Il lato “morto dentro” di queste esperienze non viene mai fuori.
A mio parere, questo libro è soprattutto un documento d’epoca che scatta la fotografia di quel momento in cui il poker Texas Hold’em era diventato una cosa gigantesca, che tutti conoscevano, che veniva giocato in tutto il mondo, che generava trasmissioni televisive e piattaforme online, produceva personaggi pubblici, i grandi professionisti, la cui notorietà somigliava a quella dei campioni sportivi. È quel periodo in cui il Texas Hold’em si è diffuso anche dalle nostre parti, tant’è che io stessa conoscevo molte delle cose di cui Whitehead parla nel libro.
In questo senso ho notato che non c’è un grosso sforzo divulgativo da parte di Whitehead. Le metafore e le similitudini che usa per spiegare il gioco ai profani sono poco comprensibili a chi non conosca già le cose di cui parla. Ne consiglio la lettura solo a chi, come me, ha vissuto quel periodo in cui il Texas Hold’em è diventato un fenomeno di massa e che ne conosce già il mondo e il lessico.
Il Los Angeles Times giudica il libro un “articolo di giornale fatto di steroidi” e suggerisce che se Whitehead avesse usato la sua storia alle WSOP per raccontare qualcosa di più personale (come il fallimento del suo matrimonio, che Whitehead cita spesso durante la narrazione, senza approfondire), allora il libro sarebbe stato significativo. Sono critiche che condivido, perché questo romanzo, seppure breve, non riesce mai a decidere cosa vorrebbe essere e a chi dovrebbe essere destinato. Complessivamente l'ho trovato noioso.
September 12, 2014
Among the 6864 entries to the main event of the 2011 World Series of Poker was author Colson Whitehead. His gig was courtesy of GRANTLAND magazine. This book, like the articles from which it was spawned, reads like a diverse series of essays about the author's life-long relationship to poker, his preparations for the event, and the changing face of Las Vegas.
He recalls the game from his college days, and a memorable 1991 road trip to Las Vegas. In that year there were a mere 215 Main Event entrants huddled around the tables at Binions. After the trip, there were casual home games, and later, monthly games with other aspiring writers in Brooklyn. After all, young writers need a break from those blank screens waiting to be filled with hard won wisdom, and the $5.00 stakes fit their budgets. Those early days are bridged to the present by the beef jerky. Jerky is a savory memory from the past with a long and humble history. The Incans dehydrated llama meat in the sun; the Spanish name for it was “charque.” The 1991 House of Jerky of Whitehead's memory has been overtaken by a commercial behemoth, Jack Link's Beef Jerky. Jack Link's, the fastest growing meat snack producer in the world, is now the official sponsor of the Main Event. Moreover, he adds, it turns out that beef jerky is the perfect poker snack. Who knows how many hands have handled those chips. You want finger food but you don't want to actually touch the food. The jerky packaging both seals in freshness and is perfect for consuming a high-protein germ free snack at the table.
Whitehead adopts a training regimen that includes daily bus trips to Atlantic City, and a three pronged attack — Mental, Physical, Existential. He hires a coach, Helen Ellis, also, coincidentally, a writer. Candidly, he assesses his physical condition. “I'd never been much of an athlete, due to a physical condition I'd had since birth (unathleticism). Perhaps if there were a sport centered around lying on your couch in a neurotic stupor all day, I'd take an interest.” He compensates with a personal trainer, assiduous management of facial expressions, and purging his diet of alcohol. It's not exactly Rocky Balboa, but nevertheless, a gesture, like cramming for the final after a semester of indifference.
Whitehead covers a bit of everything. Today's Vegas? A Leisure Industrial Complex that represents the culmination of modern expertise. “Consumer theorists, commercial architects, scientists of demography are working hard to make the LIC better, more efficient, more perfect. They analyze the traffic patterns and microscopic eye movements of shoppers, the implications of rest room and water fountain placement, and disseminate their innovations for the universal good.” Las Vegas is the pinnacle of the pyramid. The base is the shopping mall; the entirety a disposable xanadu. Looking for poker tips? Whitehead expounds on the all important M: The sum of the Big Blind, the Small Blind, and ante. M is the number of rounds you can play given your current chip count. Falling below 20M (twenty rounds) is like watching the low fuel gauge on your car fall into the red zone. What about celebrity spotting? Doyle Brunson is out 2 hours into Day 1A. The final table beckons but then eludes Daniel Negreanu. “You'll never get a Final Table full of colorful cowboys again. Simple numbers. To make it to the November Nine, the cards need to run too well for you and too poorly for too many other people. Poker dexterity will rescue you from riptides that overwhelmed weak players and driftwood-hugging Robotrons, but you'd still need a surfeit of good fortune.”
Whitehead's observations are more interesting than his progress at the World Series of Poker. The subtitle of his book could just as easily have been “Poker, Beef Jerky, and Writing.” Despite overplaying the “Anhedonia” theme, he is a gifted stylist, his paragraphs frequently set-ups for delivery of an unexpected zinger. Jaunty self-deprecation fuels his narrative. At the end he wistfully admits that his poker knowledge is quickly fading. The admission is a metaphor for life. We all have to move on.
He recalls the game from his college days, and a memorable 1991 road trip to Las Vegas. In that year there were a mere 215 Main Event entrants huddled around the tables at Binions. After the trip, there were casual home games, and later, monthly games with other aspiring writers in Brooklyn. After all, young writers need a break from those blank screens waiting to be filled with hard won wisdom, and the $5.00 stakes fit their budgets. Those early days are bridged to the present by the beef jerky. Jerky is a savory memory from the past with a long and humble history. The Incans dehydrated llama meat in the sun; the Spanish name for it was “charque.” The 1991 House of Jerky of Whitehead's memory has been overtaken by a commercial behemoth, Jack Link's Beef Jerky. Jack Link's, the fastest growing meat snack producer in the world, is now the official sponsor of the Main Event. Moreover, he adds, it turns out that beef jerky is the perfect poker snack. Who knows how many hands have handled those chips. You want finger food but you don't want to actually touch the food. The jerky packaging both seals in freshness and is perfect for consuming a high-protein germ free snack at the table.
Whitehead adopts a training regimen that includes daily bus trips to Atlantic City, and a three pronged attack — Mental, Physical, Existential. He hires a coach, Helen Ellis, also, coincidentally, a writer. Candidly, he assesses his physical condition. “I'd never been much of an athlete, due to a physical condition I'd had since birth (unathleticism). Perhaps if there were a sport centered around lying on your couch in a neurotic stupor all day, I'd take an interest.” He compensates with a personal trainer, assiduous management of facial expressions, and purging his diet of alcohol. It's not exactly Rocky Balboa, but nevertheless, a gesture, like cramming for the final after a semester of indifference.
Whitehead covers a bit of everything. Today's Vegas? A Leisure Industrial Complex that represents the culmination of modern expertise. “Consumer theorists, commercial architects, scientists of demography are working hard to make the LIC better, more efficient, more perfect. They analyze the traffic patterns and microscopic eye movements of shoppers, the implications of rest room and water fountain placement, and disseminate their innovations for the universal good.” Las Vegas is the pinnacle of the pyramid. The base is the shopping mall; the entirety a disposable xanadu. Looking for poker tips? Whitehead expounds on the all important M: The sum of the Big Blind, the Small Blind, and ante. M is the number of rounds you can play given your current chip count. Falling below 20M (twenty rounds) is like watching the low fuel gauge on your car fall into the red zone. What about celebrity spotting? Doyle Brunson is out 2 hours into Day 1A. The final table beckons but then eludes Daniel Negreanu. “You'll never get a Final Table full of colorful cowboys again. Simple numbers. To make it to the November Nine, the cards need to run too well for you and too poorly for too many other people. Poker dexterity will rescue you from riptides that overwhelmed weak players and driftwood-hugging Robotrons, but you'd still need a surfeit of good fortune.”
Whitehead's observations are more interesting than his progress at the World Series of Poker. The subtitle of his book could just as easily have been “Poker, Beef Jerky, and Writing.” Despite overplaying the “Anhedonia” theme, he is a gifted stylist, his paragraphs frequently set-ups for delivery of an unexpected zinger. Jaunty self-deprecation fuels his narrative. At the end he wistfully admits that his poker knowledge is quickly fading. The admission is a metaphor for life. We all have to move on.
July 11, 2018
The writing is delicious even if the entire enterprise never really achieves any kind of urgency or rises beyond its roots as an extended magazine article. Also, Colson Whitehead is a furious namedropper! Who knew? We get poker coach and author Helen Ellis, college buddy Darren Aronofsky and other assorted slebs casually dropped into the narrative. But it's all good. There's plenty of room for them because it's a bit thin anyway. Probably not the book I should have chosen after the triumph of The Underground Railroad.
June 30, 2020
Un libro che si lascia leggere con piacere, con un giusto equilibrio fra caustico e divertente. Probabilmente un po' complicato da seguire per chi sia completamente a digiuno di Texas Hold'em, e sicuramente più godibile da chi abbia giocato qualche partita con gli amici e sappia cosa sono le WSOP per averle seguite in tv (quando ancora c'era un canale italiano sul poker). Il libro parte decisamente bene, rallenta nella parte centrale (probabilmente si era vicini alla "bolla"), per poi riprendersi nella parte finale. En passant, ci sono parecchi spunti di lettura per chi volesse approfondire il gioco. Il mio voto: 3,5 stelle.
September 20, 2016
A moment of silence, please, for the wonderful online magazine Grantland, which had some of the smartest sportswriting around. The magazine sent Colson Whitehead on assignment to participate in the World Series of Poker. They didn't pay him for the series of articles that followed, but they covered his $10,000 entry fee to the tournament and told him he could keep whatever he won.
This book isn't for everyone. Those hoping for a guide to the World Series of Poker or poker in general will think it lacks focused. Those expecting a memoir about a guy who overcomes the odds to win millions might be bogged down by all the poker psychology. I, however, found this book to be the perfect mix of the two. Whitehead prepares for the tournament while still trying to get over the end of a marriage and to figure out the role he can still play in his daughter's life ("the kid," as he calls her for most of the book). He wins some things and loses others along the way, and even though readers can predict the ending, it's still a wild ride to figure out how he gets there.
I love Whitehead's style and humor, unflinching and unsentimental, and this book was a quick read. Both the opening line and the ending are spot-on. I would recommend this to anyone who likes poker and is somewhere at the bottom of the library waiting list for his Oprah-endorsed new novel.
This book isn't for everyone. Those hoping for a guide to the World Series of Poker or poker in general will think it lacks focused. Those expecting a memoir about a guy who overcomes the odds to win millions might be bogged down by all the poker psychology. I, however, found this book to be the perfect mix of the two. Whitehead prepares for the tournament while still trying to get over the end of a marriage and to figure out the role he can still play in his daughter's life ("the kid," as he calls her for most of the book). He wins some things and loses others along the way, and even though readers can predict the ending, it's still a wild ride to figure out how he gets there.
I love Whitehead's style and humor, unflinching and unsentimental, and this book was a quick read. Both the opening line and the ending are spot-on. I would recommend this to anyone who likes poker and is somewhere at the bottom of the library waiting list for his Oprah-endorsed new novel.
July 30, 2013
There are two reasons to read this enhanced special edition Director's Cut of Colson Whitehead's highly regarded Grantland article about his time as the Republic of Anhedonia's official representative at the World Series of Poker. The first is the litany of bizarre truths littered in the twin deserts of Las Vegas and Whitehead's dreams. These will seem familiar, as they were viewable from the original article, but they are worth seeing again, up-close and with ever more excruciating angst. The second reason (if you can still recall this paragraph's intended structure) is the humor. Colson Whitehead has always been funny, but for the first time he allows his humor first crack at every observation, instead of making it ride in the backseat while his literary talent drives, with his voluminous vocabulary riding shotgun, shouting barely decipherable directions. Go into the land of broken dreams and eternal hopes with this man, you will find few guides more familiar with its territory, and none better able to elucidate its patient allure.
August 15, 2014
Besides my rating being abysmal let me explain what reading this book was like. It's like, you're on a long flight to Vegas and you're intrigued by your soon to be first HUGE gambling experience. Suddenly, some guy sits beside you and says, "Hey, been to Vegas before?"
And you say, "Actually this will --"
"Great kid. Now, let me tell you this story of when I got to play in the World Series of Poker, and lost!"
...And he goes on telling this pointless and dull story of his time in Vegas for 15 hours.
That's how I felt reading this.
And you say, "Actually this will --"
"Great kid. Now, let me tell you this story of when I got to play in the World Series of Poker, and lost!"
...And he goes on telling this pointless and dull story of his time in Vegas for 15 hours.
That's how I felt reading this.
February 28, 2022
HILARIOUS !!!! Loved this so much
May 14, 2014
Point 1. Saw a photo of Colson Whitehead beaming with an engaging, broad smile, and I was stunned. Based on The Noble Hustle, I figured he hadn't ever smiled. Throughout the book, he is discouraged and dour. In the opening sentence, he says he is "half dead inside," and he goes on to admit he lives in the land where there's the "inability to experience pleasure." Now, I hope this depressed attitude is a humorous literary stance he has taken for The Noble Hustle, but it makes for an unpleasant journey even if that journey is to the World Series of Poker. After a while, I not only didn't think Whitehead is funny, I didn't want to be around him. Call me humorless.
Point 2. I've heard Whitehead is a superb writer of novels; I can't personally judge because I haven't read his fiction. But based on this book, I'd put the writing at good--even very good--not great. I enjoyed the wry descriptions of the various poker types, and the narration propelled me along in a sort of Gonzo journalism, but that narration occasionally veered into confusion. Though many of the descriptions are effective, the haphazard chronology (especially the "time travel" to the 2012 WSOP in the middle of the 2011 WSOP) didn't work for me. So overall, I found the writing to be good but uneven.
Point 3. For WSOP books, I enjoyed James McManus's Positively Fifth Street much more.
Point 2. I've heard Whitehead is a superb writer of novels; I can't personally judge because I haven't read his fiction. But based on this book, I'd put the writing at good--even very good--not great. I enjoyed the wry descriptions of the various poker types, and the narration propelled me along in a sort of Gonzo journalism, but that narration occasionally veered into confusion. Though many of the descriptions are effective, the haphazard chronology (especially the "time travel" to the 2012 WSOP in the middle of the 2011 WSOP) didn't work for me. So overall, I found the writing to be good but uneven.
Point 3. For WSOP books, I enjoyed James McManus's Positively Fifth Street much more.
December 14, 2015
If you've only read Colson Whitehead's novels, you may not be aware of his deep capacity for deadpan. His novels certainly have plenty of misery and meditation, but they won't have you prepared for this book. The only thing that can adequately prepare you is to start following him on Twitter. Right now. (He's @colsonwhitehead.) He's glorious, one of the best tweeters ever. His tweets are depressing and ridiculous and the funniest things you'll ever read.
What's amazing is that he takes the ability to encapsulate all those things in 140 characters and extends it to full book length, complete with a trip to the World Series of Poker. I do not know how he does this. But I couldn't stop highlighting. So much highlighting. If this book was a movie, I'd be quoting it constantly.
You need a healthy appetite for melancholy. If you don't like deadpan humor, this book probably won't sit with you well. But if that's your thing, you'll just fall over in love with this book. And the poker parts are pretty fun, too. Whitehead is supremely cool at the same time that he's a mopey, anhedonic everyman. It's an impressive tightrope walk but he does it so well.
What's amazing is that he takes the ability to encapsulate all those things in 140 characters and extends it to full book length, complete with a trip to the World Series of Poker. I do not know how he does this. But I couldn't stop highlighting. So much highlighting. If this book was a movie, I'd be quoting it constantly.
You need a healthy appetite for melancholy. If you don't like deadpan humor, this book probably won't sit with you well. But if that's your thing, you'll just fall over in love with this book. And the poker parts are pretty fun, too. Whitehead is supremely cool at the same time that he's a mopey, anhedonic everyman. It's an impressive tightrope walk but he does it so well.
June 24, 2014
I like Colson Whitehead's writing and I like poker, and I even like Grantland, so this seemed a no-brainer. It was interesting, but I was not very fulfilled by it. Perhaps I was expecting a more "poker-centric" book, a chronicle of his trying to get ready for, and eventual participation in, the WSOP. Something like, say, POSITIVELY FIFTH STREET by James McManus. That book, like THE NOBLE HUSTLE, weaves personal digressions and outside story angles into the natural arc formed by playing in the WSOP. While McManus admittedly had a much deeper run, that book was very enjoyable and had a smooth pace going back and forth between the various components. HUSTLE, though, to me, lacked that pacing and the author acknowledges this several times mentioning the non-chronological unspooling as it is happening, which I felt was somewhat jarring to the pacing. Again, perhaps I had the wrong expectations. Whitehead is a talented writer, no doubt, but this one did not really work for me. As always, YMMV.
September 26, 2022
I love Texas Hold ‘em. I play in one or two local tournaments every year. I play for fun knowing I am giving away my money to the eventual winner. I enjoy seeing friends from prior years and occasionally seeing my name on the leader board. That’s it. If I approached my tournaments the way the writer did, I’d be much poorer in my wallet and in my spirit. I don’t think I’d ever play again! If he were ever to play again, I’d tell him to stop over thinking it and enjoy being in the moment. I know that’s corny, but it’s true - at least for me.
I generally like Colson Whitehead’s writing, but I think I’ll stick to his fiction. This one was too much sarcasm for me.
I generally like Colson Whitehead’s writing, but I think I’ll stick to his fiction. This one was too much sarcasm for me.
October 28, 2014
When your book is described as a "hilarious memoir", you have, I think, a certain standard up to which you should live. Mr. Whitehead fails miserably! Perhaps, "a frequently uninteresting, at times rising to mildly amusing, travelogue cum self-deprecating navel gaze which manages to make the World Series of Poker a bore" would be more accurate.
May 21, 2014
I’ve read Whitehead’s work before and have enjoyed other works more than this offering. I learned little about poker and laughed even less at his antics. I was disappointed -- too much rambling about nothing -- I closed the book wishing I could reclaim the time I lost.
November 28, 2014
This book was poorly written and for those who play poker only. It was a difficulty read.
January 10, 2025
One of the best contemporary novelists working in America, Colson Whitehead is also, as it turns out, a solid non-fiction scribe, detailing his misadventures in the World Series of Poker and his life in card games in general. Is it on the same level as his fiction? No, but it's damn entertaining because Whitehead himself is a fascinating character in his own work.
"The Noble Hustle" tackles the high-stakes world of poker as it's played on various levels, from bull-session hangouts with friends to televised tournaments against the legends of the game. Whitehead was funded by the now-defunct Grantland Magazine (the brainchild of Bill Simmons and ESPN) to participate in the 2011 WSOP, and as he recounts here, it's an epic journey for a world-class writer and amateur poker player (with one hell of a poker face) to undertake.
So full disclosure: I rate this book highly not for the poker stuff, which I barely understood, but because Whitehead (one of my favorite writers) is just so damn good at describing the action and his reactions that I can't help but be charmed by the whole enterprise. As a treatise on sports, it's up there with "Ball Four" in capturing the once-was (or in Whitehead's case re: poker, the never-was) regarding the sport and the current champions of it. Whitehead is very much in the Jim Bouton mold here, trying to win his way to glory (well, or at least some pocket money for beef jerky), and failing spectacularly but entertainingly. The book made me laugh, especially on the last page, with his last words of wisdom regarding poker and life in general.
Plus, Whitehead's level of obsession with the game is fully conveyed here, his love-hate relationship with poker and how it brings out the worst and best in him (but usually the worst). It's a clever, funny book, and while it's not up to the level of his fiction, it's not trying to be. I loved it for what it was, and I rate it as highly as I do because Colson Whitehead has never written a dull book. And "The Noble Hustle" is anything but dull, even when we're in the weeds of poker terminology. Do I think this is a good primer for competitive poker players? No, not really, but it's a brilliant portrayal of one writer's pursuit of poker dreams. And it's funny as all get out. "The Noble Hustle" won't help your card game, but it'll make you smile and laugh.
"The Noble Hustle" tackles the high-stakes world of poker as it's played on various levels, from bull-session hangouts with friends to televised tournaments against the legends of the game. Whitehead was funded by the now-defunct Grantland Magazine (the brainchild of Bill Simmons and ESPN) to participate in the 2011 WSOP, and as he recounts here, it's an epic journey for a world-class writer and amateur poker player (with one hell of a poker face) to undertake.
So full disclosure: I rate this book highly not for the poker stuff, which I barely understood, but because Whitehead (one of my favorite writers) is just so damn good at describing the action and his reactions that I can't help but be charmed by the whole enterprise. As a treatise on sports, it's up there with "Ball Four" in capturing the once-was (or in Whitehead's case re: poker, the never-was) regarding the sport and the current champions of it. Whitehead is very much in the Jim Bouton mold here, trying to win his way to glory (well, or at least some pocket money for beef jerky), and failing spectacularly but entertainingly. The book made me laugh, especially on the last page, with his last words of wisdom regarding poker and life in general.
Plus, Whitehead's level of obsession with the game is fully conveyed here, his love-hate relationship with poker and how it brings out the worst and best in him (but usually the worst). It's a clever, funny book, and while it's not up to the level of his fiction, it's not trying to be. I loved it for what it was, and I rate it as highly as I do because Colson Whitehead has never written a dull book. And "The Noble Hustle" is anything but dull, even when we're in the weeds of poker terminology. Do I think this is a good primer for competitive poker players? No, not really, but it's a brilliant portrayal of one writer's pursuit of poker dreams. And it's funny as all get out. "The Noble Hustle" won't help your card game, but it'll make you smile and laugh.
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