Two fun things in my e-mail. One: amazon.com has shipped Chuck Palanhniuk’s new book, Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey
So nice to sleep at home!!! Traveling stinks, and I’m doing it again on Monday! Woohoo!
I also learned that I’m going to see the Police at Fenway with my brother and two cousins, how fantastic is that?
The Sausage Factory Never Closes
A review by James Boice
Chuck Palahniuk novels are not written; they are manufactured.
They are material poured into a mold, then sold to disciples.
They are escapist, mindless entertainment. This is not bad in
itself. This is bad because they give the illusion of being above
a culture of escapist, mindless entertainment. That’s Palahniuk’s
genius.
The mold of Palahniuk’s eighth novel, Rant, remains the same.
There’s a pain-and-violence-obsessed young outcast. There is rabies,
there is time travel, there is incest. Maybe. The characters are
indistinguishable. They toe the company line. They raise their
right hand and repeat after me. It’s like Fight Club. Again. And
Again. And again.
Perhaps Palahniuk’s age, success, and popularity have diluted
his ability to keep up with young outcasts with crap jobs. If
that’s the case, he should consider doing a bit more market testing
and sign up for a MySpace account before writing the next installment.
Because Rant isn’t an interesting book to read. What would be
interesting is if for the next book Palahniuk had the part of
his brain that knows how to write Chuck Palahniuk books surgically
removed. Then wrote a book about it. Unless he has an eye on a
particular yacht. In which case, carry on.
Read the review online at:
http://www.powells.com/n/218/esq/review/2007_05_02
