The Pearl

           As I read John Steinbeck’s The Pearl*, I tried to imagine what the pearl in question looked like physically. I envisioned an enormous white ball sitting luminously in a room with everyone around it like...

             Instead, it was probably a reasonably sized pearl rendered overly impressive in the small town of La Paz. The novella tells of a small family living in a tribal community. The father, a pearl diver, hauls in the Pearl of the World one day and their life changes forever (Steinbeck, 29). He is not educated; he relies solely on his instincts and the tradition of his people. Thus, he is not prepared for this unprecedented find, and many people attempt to manipulate his newfound fortune. When he initially discovers the pearl, he dreams of a better future for his wife and his son. By the end of the book, his wishes are perversely fulfilled.

           

            Steinbeck is an American guy with American concerns. This novel, published in 1947, and East of Eden, published in 1952, address the divide between good and evil and focus on the greed that fuels evil-doers. My biggest takeaway from East of Eden was Steinbeck’s uncanny ability to describe people and get to the root of who they truly are. Every mannerism, every piece of clothing, and every speech inflection reveal a person’s innermost characteristics. Here, even though Steinbeck discusses the same themes, he adopts a different writing style. His words take on a more dreamy and lyrical tone. He’s less descriptive and more straightforward, as if the book is more like a parable intended to be told in soothing tones to successive generations. In both novels, he proves his knack for interweaving complex ideas into simpler storylines. But don’t take him lightly--his words might be easy to read but they’re packed with profundity.

            Similar to East of Eden, The Pearl highlights the stereotypical complementary attributes of men and women. Women offer their infinite wisdom (duh) and men maintain their stubborn ways. The couple in the story joins forces in order to retain their dignity in the face of evil. I giggled a little when Kino, the man, puts his wife’s advice immediately to rest. “‘Hush,’ he said fiercely. ‘I am a man. Hush.’” (Steinbeck, 74) Of course, he says this right before shit goes down that would have been avoided had he listened to his woman.

            Steinbeck has mad skills when it comes to telling a good story. This novel is succinct, entertaining, and eerily rhythmical in a way that I did not know he was capable of. He continues to live up to my expectations of an author who knows what he’s talking about and is able to talk about it creatively. As such, I give The Pearl four out of five camel humps. It is a foreboding and humbling reminder that sometimes the greatest treasures can lead to the most desolate wastes.

*Steinbeck, John. The Pearl. New York: Bantam Books, 1947. Print.

The Bonfire of the Vanities

            A few months ago, I spoke to a patient at my hospital who was an English teacher. Obviously, I bombarded him with questions about his personal lit preferences as well as his favorite books to teach. When he mentioned Tom Wolfe, I gave him a knowing glance like “DUH. Who hasn’t read all of Wolfe’s novels?” I scurried out, Googled Wolfe for the first time, and proceeded to order The Bonfire of the Vanities so that I could keep up with the hot high school English class trends. The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Acid Test sounded cooler but I thought it prudent to switch it up after recent reviews on drug-addled books like Fear and Loathing, Just Kids, My Booky Wook, Naked Lunch, etc.

            Wolfe is a well-established journalist and novelist not afraid to tackle contentious topics—namely race-relations and the financial current behind them. Specifically, The Bonfire of the Vanities contrasts affluent, waspy white men with the frustrations of dispossessed black men in the Bronx. I can’t help but notice that Wolfe is a well-to-do white man himself. Yet, his words don’t come across as hypocritical or ignorant. He cycles through three perspectives in the book—all exclusively white males; but impressively, the unspoken black voice is what resonates. You’re not rooting for these white men.

            The three men in question are Sherman McCoy (a self-proclaimed “Master of the Universe” who works on Wall Street and lives in a Park Avenue mansion), Peter Fallow (a scumbag alcoholic journalist), and Larry Kramer (an assistant district attorney dissatisfied with his middleclass life). Their lives are interwoven when McCoy commits a crime, Fallow capitalizes on McCoy’s fall from grace, and Kramer prosecutes the case. Such a straightforward storyline might not seem worthy of 690 printed pages, but honestly I was hooked every step of the way. Each detail has a purpose; there is not a single wasted space or worthless description because every minute plot point proves its relevance eventually. Wolfe retains reader interest by adding a little bit of new knowledge with each chapter. The story brilliantly unfolds before our eyes. We don’t learn anything too quickly or too slowly-- the pace is just right…up until the end.

            My biggest compliment to Wolfe is his ability to portray the spectrum of human emotion. Throughout the novel, characters are painted by their peers as “good” or “evil” based on an isolated action. Extenuating circumstances are often not considered in our evaluation of others. After a while, it doesn’t matter what you did or who you truly know yourself to be. Your self becomes how other people perceive you. If someone does something bad, we think they are bad, and then we ignore evidence to the contrary. This phenomenon leads us vilify others even when we do the same things as them. Likewise, it prods us to skew the facts in a given situation to help support our steadfast idea of someone’s moral character. In highlighting this generalization of “good” people and “evil” people, Wolfe effectively captures the grey areas that we all know to be true but don’t readily admit. McCoy’s crime balloons into a disaster and takes on a moral weight. Wolfe sneakily reminds us that even this once-womanizing bigot is a human too. We come to see the “pangs of men whose egos lose their virginity” and although we don’t necessarily grow to like McCoy, we come to empathize with some of his more brutal collisions with reality (Wolfe, 669). Ultimately, we’re still looking at McCoy like…

            Overall, I appreciate that Wolfe does not shy from the cold truths of humanity’s desire for possession, sex, wealth, and status. Nor does he ignore the corruption of the NYC judicial system or the dogged loyalty of an in-group vs. an out-group. All of these things come up to some degree in every single character, which is precisely why the book’s longevity is so necessary. Admittedly though, I was a little let down by the ending. The way it ended was not disagreeable, but it did feel abrupt. I would have been happier with a longer book and a neater finish. Thus, I give it 3 out of 5 camel humps. Like many of my 3-humpers, I respect the writing and I am eager to read more of Wolfe’s works. At the same time, I couldn’t look past the conclusion, which felt like a door had been slowly closed in my face. Not a slam—but a premature, unwanted closing. Interestingly, the novel was originally published serially in Rolling Stone magazine. It came out chapter by chapter while in the process of being written (super dope). In this case, I feel like that method probably softened the blow at the end.

            Still, I think that the book would be valuable to readers, especially those involved in the #BlackLivesMatter movement. Wolfe literally asks us if “a black life [is] worth as much as a white life” in the American court system (Wolfe, 586). I’m confident that this novel would prove a worthwhile compliment to a movement that validates black lives in the face of systematic opposition.

*Wolfe, Tom. The Bonfire of the Vanities. New York: Bantam Books, 1987. Print.

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

                  Today marks the start of a new kind of post: the *Hollywood Hardbacks*. The first Wednesday of every month, I will review a book that has been made into a film, commenting on the substance of both the writing and the movie. Am I qualified to give my informed opinion on a major motion picture? Ummm obviously… I took one course on detectives in film in college. You can have it on good authority that I am fully prepared to provide you the multilayer review you’ve been waiting for.

                  The first book in my Hollywood Hardbacks series is Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I went to Vegas in August and I’ve been legitimately terrified of it ever since. Flashbacks of wading in large pools with hundreds of other assholes listening to loud music and drinking $50 drinks. Woof. Hunter S. Thompson’s infamous book perfectly encapsulates the vileness of this derelict desert. The setting is pretty straightforward. Thompson, in real life, roams on a drug-induced binge through Sin City with his attorney/friend in a search for the “American Dream”. The text draws from a notebook that Thompson kept during two trips to the city commissioned by magazines. Thompson found that it wasn’t exactly a stroll down the strip to complete his reporting duties considering he was on a combination of LSD, mescaline, ether, amyl nitrite (is this a thing?), coke, marijuana, and alcohol at all times. I’m honestly impressed that his beer belly physique was capable of withstanding it all. Hard body.

                  The actions and dialogue are purposefully outrageous throughout. Chapter titles include things like “A terrible experience with extremely dangerous drugs”, “Paranoid terror and the awful specter of sodomy…a flashing of knives and green water”, etc. Per usual Thompson flair (see my old review on The Rum Diary), he aggressively plunges into the depths of human despair as a way to exemplify America’s lusts and consumerist obsessions. He wants to push the envelope as far as it would go because he felt that his generation’s counterculture ethos had failed as a guide towards life’s answers or as a coping mechanism for life’s problems. Specifically, he calls out Timothy Leary’s psychedelic advocacy, stating that the movement did not satisfy society’s vicious search for happiness.

                  Thompson says we’re all just “humping the American Dream” (lol), but what exactly is this so-called vision (Thompson, 57)? Americans love a self-made man—someone who can pull himself up by his bootstraps and make something of himself. To portray the ridiculousness of that ideal—the endless search for more, more, more—Thompson took more and more and more drugs and spent more and more and more money in a city that thrives on excessive expenditure. Like, he took all of the drugs. As an aside, I believe the British dream involves crumpets in a pub and being pompously polite.

                  In book form, Thompson never fails to titillate. He’s an extremely intelligent and talented hedonist who will frankly prostrate himself in the pursuit of journalistic integrity. Hunter S. Thompson: the gonzo journalist sacrifice! He is a good writer, even if the extreme drug use rubs you the wrong way. Thompson is telling a story and if you judge him, that’s no skin off his back. At the same time, as entertaining as it was, I wouldn’t say that it’s brilliant literature. I had similar feelings towards The Rum Diary—I like it and I like Thompson, but I can only give it 3 out of 5 camel humps because I don’t find it absolutely groundbreaking. And I don’t think it’s intended to be.

                  Truthfully, the book did more for me than the movie. I was impressed that the film was virtually a verbatim account of Thompson’s text. He practically wrote a screenplay. Cartoonist Ralph Stedman did a remarkable job illustrating the novel, so I had high expectations for the film’s visual interpretations and it delivered. Aesthetically, I enjoyed certain scenes like Thompson losing his shit when he thinks the people around him are transforming into reptiles or when he takes too much of the mysterious adenochrome drug.  In terms of character portrayal, Johnny Depp and Benicio Del Toro were spot on. Depp romps around like a certified lunatic and Benicio dons this menacing drawl that renders his character simultaneously absurd and believable. Still, some magic was lost in the making of the motion picture. I think that if you watched the film without the context of the book, it would seem incomprehensible or at least disorienting; I’m not sure that the movie could stand alone well. When your storyline centers so exclusively on drugs, I can imagine it’s difficult to honor the message behind Thompson’s vulgarity while depicting the vulgarity itself. Sure, you can show some trippy acid scenes and have it be compelling, but does that really get to the heart of Thompson’s assertion that our gratuitous ways are unfulfilling like the written word can? Once again, we have the classic case of *the book is better than the movie*. So, I give the movie 2 out of 5 camel humps, not because it didn’t amuse, but because it paled in comparison.

*Thompson, Hunter S. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. New York: Random House, 1971. Print.

Just Kids

            Today I finished Patti Smith’s memoir Just Kids* and then casually started tearing up in Chiptole. I’m watering my insufficiently cheesed burrito bowl and wistfully staring at the cover; it had ended so touchingly and I was sad to see it go. I’m just glad I wasn’t in public during the Breaking Bad finale. That show is the goddamn GOAT.

            Anyway, although the book is technically a memoir, it mostly chronicles her relationship with the most integral man in her life: Robert Mapplethorpe. Mapplethorpe was an artist known for his controversial sexual photographs and homoerotic depictions until he passed away from AIDS in 1989. Patti Smith is a singer-songwriter who pioneered the fusion of poetry and rock n roll music.  Prior to their fame, they were two young lovers and friends struggling to define their artisanal voice within New York City.

            What I love about this memoir is that you don’t have to be immersed within the artistic realm to appreciate it. Patti and Robert’s friendship was so genuine and empathetic that I wanted to keep reading about their adventures. I find it so beautiful that that kind of intimacy existed between them; it gives me hope that despite all the darkness in the world, there are human connections so intense that they sustain you. Mutual affection and respect guided them—each one was the other’s muse, providing inspiration, encouragement, and eventually propelling their respective projects into public recognition. Smith described her counterpart as “a lover and a friend to create with, side by side. To be loyal, yet be free” (Smith, 81).

            Their relationship was simple and pure: they lived together, worked together, lay together…and then sometimes openly had sex with other people. To be honest, the (few) polygamous people I know exhibit a holier than thou attitude and thereby tote their polygamy about obnoxiously. They act like society’s monogamous tendencies are inferior, limited, and wrong. In my opinion, I think it’s a personal choice based on psychological inclinations. What works for some doesn’t necessarily work for others. Patti Smith intrigued me because she embodied a seemingly elevated form of sexuality. She was pretty monogamous herself, but she was very tolerant and understanding of Robert’s need to explore his repressed homosexuality. At one point when he was hustling for money, I had a moment of feminist outrage where I wished Patti would speak up for herself more and express her valid concerns with his physically dangerous behavior. Then I realized that the truth of the matter is that she didn’t feel affronted. She espoused a less rigid understanding of the world and she was unwaveringly confident in what she meant to Robert. And if that’s enough for her, then more power to her.

            She assumed the same nonjudgmental *you do you and I’ll do me* attitude when it came to drugs. As she and Robert moved from place to place in search of an affordable creative foothold, she was surrounded by substances. Artistry infused her entire being; it ran through her veins and she did not want something like heroin to take its place. While many of her friends turned to drugs for artistic insights, she refused to partake and thus surprised the world she was enveloped in. Yet, she was unperturbed by her companions’ narcotic-addled lifestyles. For instance, the first time Robert met her family, he took LSD right before to stay his nerves (Smith, 52). Sober Smith was largely open-minded with regards to other people’s choices, lending her an angelic quality.  She was “in full possession of [herself]”; she knew what she wanted and whom she cared for and everything else was peripheral. I’m not a huge fan of her music, but I respect her as an individual because she was so passionate about Robert and her work. Together, they viewed the world entirely through artistic glasses—through the lens of limitless potential creation. A trip to the coffee shop wasn’t merely a trek to caffeine; it was an exploration in resplendent outfits.

            Books such as this are refreshing to the reader because they capture the joy of what it means to be human: to love another and love what you collectively create. Her story speaks to your mind and your soul because she is an adept writer as well as a beautiful storyteller. Reading Just Kids made me feel light and untethered. Her words were like balloons daintily guided by static electricity because her existence was that of a woman floating towards creative energy. Science!

            The only thing that irked me—mostly from a jealous perspective—is that the life she illustrated (a life as an artist alongside Mapplethorpe in the 60’s and 70’s) is much less attainable now. When they had no money, they traded their portfolios for room and board at the historic Chelsea hotel, a hub for renaissance. The idea of celebrity was more fluid; famous artists were accessible and you could walk amongst them, be their friends, and thereby garner inspiration. She sat at the same tables as Andy Warhol, Allen Ginseberg, William Burroughs, etc. Nowadays, I can’t just waltz into a bar and plop myself next to Tarantino. Furthermore—and I’m not saying this undermines her talent—but she did have tremendous amounts of support financially from the men in her life. I can imagine that we’d all be a little more brilliant if someone paid our rent and we didn’t have to worry about meals or student loans. Nevertheless, I’m just bitching on the side because I want the freedom to be fabulous. I also want a friend named Tinkerbell, like she had.

            Overall, Smith effectively memorialized the man that was her rock and her salvation. It’s not a complex read—just a moving one—and if you want to feel the vibrancy of their relationship, I recommend it. I promise I’m not the only one that can vouch for her poignancy. The memoir won the 2010 National Book Award for Nonfiction and became a New York Times bestseller. If that doesn’t convince you, Johnny Depp attested, “Patti Smith has graced us with a poetic masterpiece, a rare and privileged invitation to unlatch a treasure chest never before breached” (Smith, back cover). I give it 4 out of 5 camel humps and I hope that I stumble across you readers weeping in chain restaurants once you are done with it.

Smith || Mapplethorpe

*Smith, Patti. Just Kids. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2010. Print. 

The Catcher in the Rye

            Ask a group of reasonably well-read adults what their favorite book is, and you’ll likely hear a lot of The Catcher in the Rye*. I originally read this infamous novel three years ago and emerged disappointed. It receives so much hype that I expected some staggeringly brilliant work that would forever change my life. Instead, I started appreciating Holden Caulfield cultural references, but not much more. Now that I’m revisiting the book, I feel quite differently about it all. Let me clarify my newfound interest in Caulfield terms; here’s a run-down of my re-read in Salinger-speak:

            The book is very entertaining, if you want to know the truth. It’s simple; it reads just like a conversation. No kidding. Caulfield sort of tells you about a couple of days in his life. It’s accessible enough to finish in one sitting, I just wasn’t in the mood at the time. I started it on the train one morning when I was feeling really lousy. I had just come back from D.C. Very big deal. Instead of swallowing it whole, I read a few pages and then started to chew the fat with a girl next to me who said her name was Jenna. I felt a little sorry for her because she had these big bug eyes that kept distracting me when she would speak. Anybody would have a tough time listening to old Jenna because of her goddamn big bug eyes. I started thinking about how many important things she’s probably said in her life that nobody ever heard because they couldn’t fully pay attention. It made me depressed as hell, if you really want to know. Then, she began telling me about a movie she had seen earlier that day. She kept saying how marvelous the movie had been. I don’t know why she had to ruin a perfectly good conversation with something as phony as that. I mean for Chrissake, can you imagine your whole day revolving around a goddamn marvelous movie you saw that afternoon? It probably had an actor with a great big smile who probably goes home and beats his kids when he’s done filming. I couldn’t shoot the bull with her anymore after that. I got out at the very next stop even though it wasn’t where I’d planned. I just had to get out of there, I was depressed as hell all of a sudden. I thought to cheer myself up I might give my niece a buzz. Whenever I ask about her day at school, she sort of gives me this smirk like she thought I’d never ask, and then she tells me all about everything that happened, in great detail. It kills me.

           

            There ya have it. Back to Lyndsay-speak. I totally get why readers find Holden Caulfield unbearably annoying—I thought the same thing my first go-around. The second time though, I ran with it. I embraced the angst. And once you get past how he’s saying it (if that even annoys you in the first place), you can really resonate with what he’s saying. I can identify with Caulfield’s exasperation. Sure, he extrapolates negativity and takes his complaints as far as they can possibly go, but the book is so beautifully human. Sometimes he feels things and he’s not sure why. Sometimes he hates something with a passion but also backs up his hatred with meticulously formed reasons. Caulfield is an incredibly perceptive teen who picks up on people’s peeve-inducing habits and notices an alarming trend in society as a result: Everything is going to shit!

            The novel centers on Caulfield's identity crisis. There’s something childlike in his disdain of virtually everything and everyone in his life. He reacts to his surroundings as though nothing could placate him and oftentimes he exhibits hypocrisy, as when he calls out phonies but brags that he’s a terrific liar. On the other hand, there’s also something mature in his assessments. His keen awareness of people’s true motives and his careful articulation of what bothers him reveal a layer of wisdom that sets him apart from the ordinary troubled teen. He’s stuck in the in-between of life phases and he hasn’t mastered how to cope. Just because he’s confused doesn’t mean he’s a bad guy. After all, he wants to be the catcher in the rye, standing firm in the rye field and catching kids if they start to fall off of the cliff, presumably into the perils of adulthood (Salinger, 173). *Still waiting to be caught, Holden*

            Unfortunately, the novel is associated with several well-known shootings. Most notably, John Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman, possessed a copy of the book at the time of his arrest with the inscription "To Holden Caulfield, From Holden Caulfield, This is my statement”. Obviously, I do not think that my interpretation of the book is the only plausible one. Still, in my opinion, the novel ends on a rather positive note, all things considered.  For the very first time, Holden claims that he “felt so damn happy” (Salinger, 213). Shortly thereafter, he says that even though he has badmouthed pretty much everyone he knows, he still misses them (Salinger, 214). There’s room for hope here, and in spite of all the pessimism, Holden presses on. I think it misses the mark to conclude that the book is merely a recipe for violence that equips angry men and women with justification for murder.

            Which brings me to my next point. Banning books. Sigh *rolls eyes*. Even in the 21^st century, Salinger’s work receives an onslaught of censorship challenges. I will never understand an argument that fights against education and exposure in favor of policing so-called morality. Call me a bleeding-heart liberal, but I think that interaction with beliefs that are not your own serves to effectively refine and enhance those beliefs. Let’s take advantage of the fact that we live in America, and relish in our ability to have these discussions out in the open. Certainly, The Catcher in the Rye might make you uncomfortable, but that doesn’t mean it’s inherently bad and it definitely doesn’t mean you shouldn’t read it. In fact, that’s even more of a reason to indulge—you can discover why it makes you uncomfortable and then learn something about yourself! The horror!

            I digress. Anyway, I chose to review this novel in honor of Banned Books week, a knowledge-friendly time of year that celebrates the freedom to read from September 27^th-Oct 3^rd. I’m a born-again Salinger-appreciator and I encourage you to either crack this open for the first time or revisit his work and give it a second chance. Overall, I give The Catcher in the Rye 5 out of 5 goddamn camel humps. Read it and weep about the world (but then also consider that maybe it’s tolerable).

*Salinger, J.D. The Catcher in the Rye. New York: Bantam Books, Inc., 1951. Print.

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City

        On my commute to work the other day, I was frustrated by the glacial pace of the underground exodus. Normally, New Yorkers quite literally sprint up the stairs to get the hell out of the subway. I reached the second flight and spotted/smelled the culprit: a giant mound of human shit rested in the middle of the steps. *Happy Wednesday*. Now, this inconvenience could easily have been the present of some drunken frat boy on a dare. More plausibly, it was the product of a homeless(wo)man.

As someone who has a home (albeit a very cramped, poorly functioning one), it’s easy to look at homelessness as a binary fact: you’re either living on the streets or you’re not. After reading Nick Flynn’s award-winning and brilliantly titled memoir Another Bullshit Night in Suck City*, I learned that actually there is a great deal of fluidity within the homeless community. The scene within a shelter is continually in flux based on weather, familial support, occupation, pride, etc. While this seems self-evident, I do think our tendency to simplify and condense is so ingrained in us that we often look at a person in a shelter and immediately categorize them as dispossessed, even if that might just be a short-term situation.

The book is about a social worker who is reunited with his homeless father after years of estrangement. Nick was raised by a single mother while his absentee father wandered about Boston, occasionally sending his children eccentric letters that detailed some elaborate heist or shenanigan. Despite Nick’s understandable revulsion towards the man, he finds himself following in the adrift footsteps of his paternal legacy. They are both aspiring writers who cannot find a foothold in that industry. Their lives are shaped by drugs and alcohol; every activity is laced with the urge to suppress. From an outsider’s perspective, it appears that Nick and his father are on parallel tracks. Subjectively, Nick is disturbed by the notion that he’s destined to fall short of societal and self-expectations. He wonders if failure is part of his lineage—if indignity is in his blood. Once he enters his early twenties, Nick starts working at a shelter, so ironically, the homeless pay his rent. He vaguely knows that his dad lives on the streets; clearly, although he is disgusted by his father, he is also in some ways deeply drawn to him. His choice to remain within a scene in which his dad could pop up at any moment, like a “drunken jack in the box”, opens up Pandora’s psychological box (Flynn, 225). There is fear and unease associated with the possible confrontation of his demons. Is he concerned for his father’s well being? Does he need closure for his years of fatherlessness? Is he simply curious about the madman being the letters? Does he have a desire to affirm the differences between him and his father—a way to negate the similarities by pinpointing and refining what they are exactly? In some ways, his dad is a compass that allows Nick to weave in and out of these questions, sentiments, and self-reflections. A compass with the magnets all screwed up if you will.

Sure enough, his dad eventually shows up as a patron of the shelter. Nick reveals, “some part of me knew he would show up, that if I stood in one place long enough he would find me, like you’re taught to do when you’re lost. But they never taught us what to do if both of you are lost, and you both end up in the same place, waiting” (Flynn, 24). With this new development, there is some unsettling role reversal—he’s taking care of his dad even though his dad never took care of him. They’re “living together” in adulthood rather than childhood. What an odd and disorienting experience—and keep in mind that this is a memoir, this twilight-zoney business actually happened. Nick ponders the implications of their new relationship. He sees a homeless guy on a bench and wonders, “If this is my father, if I leave a sandwich beside his sleeping body, does that become a family meal? Is this bench now our dinner table?” (Flynn, 248).

So, the storyline of this book is exceptional, but is it expressed well? Nick Flynn is primarily a poet and this profession certainly suffuses through his tragically beautiful memoir. It is definitely a heavy read, but it’s something that feels somehow necessary—both for him to put his feelings into words and for me to read and attempt to empathize. It is a brutally honest disclosure of his search for an essential self. He is an introspective guy who is profoundly shaped by his experiences of fatherlessness and unique re-fathering. Some teachers advise writers to “show, not tell”—Nick Flynn shows and tells. I would LOVE to hear him do a reading because I imagine his words would sound poignantly lyrical aloud.

Even though the memoir’s tone is generally somber, Nick is cynically funny throughout. After a particularly heart-wrenching family event, someone asked him how he was doing. Nick mockingly remarks, “He might as well ask, “Besides that, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you like the play?” (Flynn, 156). Lawlz. His dark humor and creativity augment rather than detracts from his message. He punctuates his story with imaginative analogies or poetic sidetracks and it effectively tugs at the heartstrings. For instance, he spends one chapter (four pages) just listing different words/phrases that mean “drunk”. Additionally, oftentimes he quotes his father or describes an episode within his father’s life. While Nick did investigate his father’s factual history to some degree, these depictions are mostly retrospective superimpositions by Nick—they are expressions of what he imagines his father's thoughts were and what his destitute situation must have felt like. It is a blend of nonfiction and fiction, and that is where his talent really shines through.

A sign of a good book is when certain passages haunt you for months, even years to come. I read this memoir a few months ago for a book club with my friends you’ve encountered in the past—Matt and Will—and I’m only just now humpday-hardbacking it! I was reluctant for so long because I felt that my review wouldn’t do it justice—it’s such an intense story with ties to an endemic socioeconomic issue. One chapter that has spoken to me since I put down the book is titled “Ham”. It consists of an intricately well thought out analogy to the biblical Noah. It is a remarkably applicable comparison of fathers with grandiose ideas and sons grappling with the hopelessness of an inevitable inheritance and poor predestination. Like father, like son. That’s not great when your dad is a homeless, penniless, loveless, drunkard. Luckily, my dad is a loving, good-souled hunter with an impressive beard and a passion for dachshunds. Hopefully, I'll end up looking something like this:

During his upbringing, both Nick and his father loosely held on to the idea that writing is a noble profession that justifies and maybe even necessitates struggle. After all, “to be a poet digging ditches is very different from being a mere ditch digger” (Flynn, 15). They inwardly thought that maybe homelessness isn’t so bad because it’s an *experience*-- it contributes to an interesting personage and provides material to write about. Being a struggling writer doesn’t mean you’re not talented… you’re just *undiscovered*. Finally, with this memoir, Nick Flynn is discovered. He’s redeemed. And this is a very aggressively beautiful transformation to witness. All in all, I give Another Bullshit Night in Suck City 5 out of 5 camel humps. Read it and perhaps you’ll have enough good luck to not encounter shit on your commute.

*Flynn, Nick. Another Bullshit Night in Suck City. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2004. Print.