White Noise
This book was almost enough to make me take back what I said about all those motherfucking postmodernists . . . almost. It was funny, sad, scary, profound . . . all things I enjoy. But it was also pretentious as hell, and I HATE that. There's this thing contemporary literary authors like to do where they juxtapose a really complex sentence and idea with something extremely mundane, set in really simple prose, and they expect you to be all WHOA. MY MIND. IT IS BLOWN. Instead, I'm just like, seriously? SERIOUSLY? Example, from page 18:
"Shouldn't death, I thought, be a swan dive, graceful, white-winged and smooth, leaving the surface undisturbed? Blue jeans tumbled in the dryer."
Not coincidentally, I think this is a technique borrowed from post-modern poetry, most of which I also despise, especially when they read it out loud in their 'poet-voice.'
THEM: It is art! I am an artist!
ME: Fuck you, asshole. Get a grip and stop masturbating yourself with your brain.
I firmly believe brains and smarts are necessary, but only when accompanied firmly by heart. One without the other usually equals suck. White Noise is mostly brains, but it's also got some heart. I just wish it had more.