Stephen Wright (1) (1946–)

almost the entire time i was listening to this all i could think was 'what the fuck?' over and over again. the first chapter was really well done and i think probably the whole thing is quite well written, but i have no idea, after that first chapter, of what in the world i was listening to. if i had been reading it myself i never would have finished - something that has only happened a time or two in my entire life. and i'm pretty sure i was only able to listen because i zoned out here and there.

this was theoretically connected (barely, subtly) chapters that were really short stories that each stood more or less alone, but that also were supposed to tell a larger story. that overarching story was entirely over my head. i've read reviews that tell me what it is supposed to be, but even then i really don't see it. possibly i wasn't paying close enough attention because i was disliking it so much, but to me the only thread throughout (after that first chapter) was violence and depravity and the writing style.

i do think the writing is good but i could hardly bear this book. i wanted to read it because toni morrison called it "astonishing" and i really really love her, but i suppose she could have meant any number of things by that quote. or she found something in it that i just didn't.… (mais)

Over the Cliff into Numbdom

Stephen Wright proves, if nothing else in this rollicking novel about greed, capitalism gone wild, self-indulgence, and general American nuttiness, that too much does exist. Moving at hyper speed, packed with coined words that give new meaning to naming people, places, and interjections, the novel blasts off with excitement, and then proceeds to hollow that thrill into a friable word heap. This novel might have worked at half its near 400 pages, but at its current length you leave numbed and begging for the gunfire to end. Yes, different it is, but sometimes different just isn’t enough, or maybe too much, in this case. Still, some readers out there may be in the mood for something completely different, and if you are among them, have at it.

The story here is quite simple. Main protagonist Graveyard, one of the tamer names in a collection that includes MisterMenu, Blisterpac, SideEffects, and the like, is strolling down a street in the tonier section of Mammoth City when a giant bag falls from the sky and nearly sends him into the ethereal land of endless mammon. When he gathers his senses, he opens the bag to discover it is filled with literal American style mammon, bundles of crisp one-hundred dollar bills. Seems aforementioned MisterMenu loves his money so much he likes to keep big bags of it in his penthouse, a bag in each room, as a sort of superrich guy pacifier. Graveyard spirits it home to his tiny apartment in the not tony part of town, surprises Ambience, his wife, with it, upon which they proceed to have sex, buy everything in sight, consume copious amounts of drugs, have more and more sex, and generally live the American dream of unbridled avarice. Naturally, MisterMenu wants his cash back, because if there is one thing rich folks prize above all else it is their money, of which, as we all know and see on display in our non fiction society, is a fact in a America fast having a hard time distinguishing fact from fake. MisterMenu and his hired henchmen are relentless in their pursuit of his bag, and, as you can easily guess, things don’t end well for Graveyard, who gets to live up to his name. But until then, well, there is the sex, drugs, and general madcap of too much of everything.

You do have to wonder, and you probably have: what would I do if I came into a vast sum of money, like improbably winning a state lottery? Your choices certainly, you’d like to believe, would be more sensible than those of Graveyard and Ambience. But, then, sensible is in the eye of the beholder, and that big new house, that super expensive car (though definitely not of the caliber of Graveyard’s HomoDebonaire), that bass fishing boat, that flashy wardrobe of NBA togs, and whatever else tickled your imagination, those might strike the poorer among us as a total waste of good money that we know we could spend better.

But enough of this rambling. Let’s leave it to a master rambler with a much more expansive mind. Processed Cheese is a huge, brightly word-colored comic rendition of America gone wild, and a real hoot for a while, until the ennui sets in, as it always seems to in life.… (mais)

Over the Cliff into Numbdom

Stephen Wright proves, if nothing else in this rollicking novel about greed, capitalism gone wild, self-indulgence, and general American nuttiness, that too much does exist. Moving at hyper speed, packed with coined words that give new meaning to naming people, places, and interjections, the novel blasts off with excitement, and then proceeds to hollow that thrill into a friable word heap. This novel might have worked at half its near 400 pages, but at its current length you leave numbed and begging for the gunfire to end. Yes, different it is, but sometimes different just isn’t enough, or maybe too much, in this case. Still, some readers out there may be in the mood for something completely different, and if you are among them, have at it.

The story here is quite simple. Main protagonist Graveyard, one of the tamer names in a collection that includes MisterMenu, Blisterpac, SideEffects, and the like, is strolling down a street in the tonier section of Mammoth City when a giant bag falls from the sky and nearly sends him into the ethereal land of endless mammon. When he gathers his senses, he opens the bag to discover it is filled with literal American style mammon, bundles of crisp one-hundred dollar bills. Seems aforementioned MisterMenu loves his money so much he likes to keep big bags of it in his penthouse, a bag in each room, as a sort of superrich guy pacifier. Graveyard spirits it home to his tiny apartment in the not tony part of town, surprises Ambience, his wife, with it, upon which they proceed to have sex, buy everything in sight, consume copious amounts of drugs, have more and more sex, and generally live the American dream of unbridled avarice. Naturally, MisterMenu wants his cash back, because if there is one thing rich folks prize above all else it is their money, of which, as we all know and see on display in our non fiction society, is a fact in a America fast having a hard time distinguishing fact from fake. MisterMenu and his hired henchmen are relentless in their pursuit of his bag, and, as you can easily guess, things don’t end well for Graveyard, who gets to live up to his name. But until then, well, there is the sex, drugs, and general madcap of too much of everything.

You do have to wonder, and you probably have: what would I do if I came into a vast sum of money, like improbably winning a state lottery? Your choices certainly, you’d like to believe, would be more sensible than those of Graveyard and Ambience. But, then, sensible is in the eye of the beholder, and that big new house, that super expensive car (though definitely not of the caliber of Graveyard’s HomoDebonaire), that bass fishing boat, that flashy wardrobe of NBA togs, and whatever else tickled your imagination, those might strike the poorer among us as a total waste of good money that we know we could spend better.

But enough of this rambling. Let’s leave it to a master rambler with a much more expansive mind. Processed Cheese is a huge, brightly word-colored comic rendition of America gone wild, and a real hoot for a while, until the ennui sets in, as it always seems to in life.… (mais)