“Um, no.
That’s not exactly a stunning review, but it summarizes how I felt.
The first third of the book is narrated by a really annoying 20-something who obviously wants people to feel he’s very intellectual. I guess there’s something to be said for the fact that Barnes got the tone dead on because it was taking me back to college when people would say “Have you read X?” as a way of saying “I’ve read X.”
So, effective, spot on, but still really annoying to read. The last thing I want to do is hear someone about age 20 waxing philosophical. Not that I’m a wise old man or anything, I just really don’t care what ANYONE thinks about whether or not history is written within an appropriate sociological context and what the implications of that may or may not be. CHALLENGE ME! Approach me in a bar and start talking about this. I’m apt to finish my drink, no matter how full or unchuggable it may be, in order to escape under the old chestnut, “I’m parched, if you’ll excuse me…YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
That’s my game. Start polite, then the claws come out.
The book was also pretty soap opera-y. Secret babies with questionable parentage, and in the end the “reveal” is a revelation of facts, but not of emotional content. I did not give one shit, and frankly I didn’t see why the narrator did either.
To make a comparison, it would be like me remembering that in middle school I said to a kid who made fun of my backpack “I hope you die!” and then finding out he did die…but 35 years later. I probably wouldn’t feel good about it. Or maybe I would because I had a fuckin’ sweet backpack. Either way, I don’t think this makes for a really significant tale of woe.
Probably the best thing I can take away from this book is the knowledge that a book that showcases, multiple times, a scene in which a guy jacks off into a toilet can win the Man Booker prize. I don’t know what exactly that prize is, but if it’s toilet jacking they’re looking for, there’s hope for my literary aspirations yet.”