This book is very long. It has many pages stuffed between its covers. Not only that, but almost all of those pages are brimming with words. Much likeThis book is very long. It has many pages stuffed between its covers. Not only that, but almost all of those pages are brimming with words. Much like War and Peace and 2666 it is lengthy and also has a spinal width that shirks all sensible notions of modesty. It is a tome nearly identical to Infinite Jest, another thick book shamelessly filled with many words and pages. David Foster Whaaaaat?? This tome is also extremely tome-like and highly reminiscent of the Pulitzer Prize defying book Gravity's Rainbow. It is a doorstop (it could even stop, like, a really heavy door--like the hefty stainless steel ones I have on my Working Man's barn out back) like, say, Ulysses and The Oxford English Dictionary, which are also both very long and amassed with precious tree-flesh. Much like Adam Levin's The Instructions this book is something not so much to be read as is to be fashionably lugged along (like a kettle weight or a broken leg) on various public transit systems and raised--with trembling and deception barely masked--upon the aching wrists of disingenuous bandwagon-hoppers. Fuckin' lyin' cunts, all of them.
Oh, indeed, this book is big. And long. And a tome. Tome. Tome. Tome. All tomes are created equal, of course. At one's local bookshop one would head to the Long Books section to find this book among other such Mandatory Slogs. The Literary Elites insist that you read such books. The Holy Bible and The Recognitions are also nearly indistinguishable from the pure bluster of such contemporary postmodern exercises in excess.
Also, this book weighs too much. It broke my bathroom scale when I was staring at it while taking an Everyman's shit one day.
Why won't the big ol' bad Cabal of Literary Elites just leave us good, normal, Salt of the Earth Folks alone and stop forcing us at pen-point to endure these over-hyped, naked-Emperor-exposing bricks of words? They're merciless in their insistence. Just yesterday I was accosted by a wild pack of academics and professional writers who nearly bled me to death from the many paper cut wounds they inflicted with their MFA certificates. Snarling, pompous, bloviating monsters they are, one and all.
Was it Underworld by (that most denuded of Emperors) Don DeLillo, or (the evolutionary biologist) E.O. Wilson's Sociobiology that I was last forced to read under such duress? I can't remember because they're all more or less exactly the same in their overwrought thickness. Did I mention that such books could stop a door?? Well, they could, and boy am I clever to point this out.
These books, while as long as the Nile and Amazon combined, are as shallow as the glistening sheen of spittle-mist left upon the buttock of one of their "genius" authors by their fawning acolytes. We true down-to-Earthers know what's up, however: there is no there there. Aha! We've seen through the bullshit and have worn out our sturdy pseudo-Blue Collar backs from oh so much self-patting. If only the DFWs, DeLillos and Vollmans of the world could be just as humble and matter-of-fact as we! The fucking snobs. Well, good thing that those of us with a heavily calloused finger firmly placed on the pulse on what real literature is can take the piss out of all these intellectual con-artists. It's all fucking bollocks, mates.
Mr. Vollmann's "opus" recalled The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders much like Against the Day strongly reminded me of The Bhagavad Gita because they all took more than a few hours to read. I think that the so-called "American Psychiatric Association" is only slightly less self-indulgent than Vollman, Pynchon, Ancient Indian Religious Authorities et al, though just as verbose and egomaniacle and overpraised by snooty lit-fic types.
So what's this book about? Lengthy, flashy White Male Narcissism? Yeah, that's probably its filthy little secret for us Plain and No-Bullshit Readers to decipher. Or is it "a history of and series of meditations upon violence" or some such silly elitist hot-air musings? Who knows. I can't be bothered to find out because lifting the thing's a serious test of my tendons and the first page doesn't immediately make me ejaculate with pure harmonious Entertainment Value.
Sorry, Vollmann. Call me when you write an easily digestible feather-weight pamphlet about sexual adventures and/or rock 'n' roll music, you pretentious twat....more
Renowned philosopher Derek Parfit described this book as the "best statement and defence, so far, of one of the most important moral theories." The siRenowned philosopher Derek Parfit described this book as the "best statement and defence, so far, of one of the most important moral theories." The single review on amazon.com for this title also gave a positive endorsement that I found personally encouraging....more