It's unfair to say that I gave Mr. Palahniuk a fair chance, having gone into this with a preset distaste for his writing. But honestly, he could have proved me wrong, delivering something substantial and interesting...albeit the "edgy" tone which is so common to him, and which I dislike (though can appreciate through my prejudice in other writers).
Palahniuk is compared to Vonnegut? I don't know about that. I rather think that he is a cliché and that he tries too hard to be crude in order to be cool - which, he doesn't accomplish well. Sex, grit, and insanity? Typical. Try to be a little more creative, please. First chapter was so overdone it was painful; calling the main character as an innocent child an array of bastardizing and profane adjectives is not new, interesting, or funny - it's just sad, because there is less respect that I can give C.P. for what he's doing. It isn't style, it's just a lack of talent in being able to make a weighted plot. I didn't give two shits about a single one of the characters in this book - and not in the way that the author would have liked. This only means that he doesn't know how to sculpt a character...to make them three dimensional, and actually human. And the excessive use of lists is just plain annoying. I was constantly begging for the last page to come.
It may not have been a wise decision, on my part, to be simultaneously reading two books about psychotic mothers either (not that I planned it this way), as I am now more than halfway through The Memory Palace. But that may be the problem in my aversion to these books; I don't like either, which is making my dissatisfaction at the both of them much greater than had I taken either of them alone.
Bartok's book isn't bad. In fact, her interests in topic and style are very similar to mine. What's bothersome, is the self-pity. On top of that, is the TERRIBLE editing, which I can't forgive. The spelling errors/typos are too numerous to go unnoticed (and although it is her first novel, it is not her first book). And on top of that, I don't like her art, which she has managed to not-so-nonchalantly scatter throughout the work. I envy her life (minus the schizophrenic mother): teaching at the Field Museum, going to Europe, becoming a somewhat successful artist, etc etc. She went to SAIC like me, and managed to do things that I only dream of doing (how the hell did she even get these gigs, I would like to know) and yet her art is not that good. Why!? Tell me, what the hell is it that my friends and I, post grad, are all doing wrong that this person can be as successful as she is? If it is just that she is exploiting her rough family life, then she will have to leave that heartache she's sparing for herself in due to her mother behind, as there are plenty of us with happy pasts who are struggling. The balance seems at this point, somewhat leveled. This all just comes down to bottom line, SOMEONE HIRE ME.
Not quite sure yet which book is next to continue on with the list, but it will be interesting to see where my mind will wander next in course of whatever it may be.
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