| Title | : | Great Expectations |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0802131557 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780802131553 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Paperback |
| Number of Pages | : | 128 |
| Publication | : | First published January 1, 1982 |
Great Expectations Reviews
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This is the most complex, cryptic, intellectual book I've ever read.
No kidding, guys, it really drove me up the wall. Thank God it's very short (128 pages), because I had to read it three times in a row to even start gathering my thoughts.
Even Calasso's works are vanilla in comparison with this cultural and emotional tour de force: a hypertext riddle, a Chinese box, in short a literary challenge that utterly defeated and captivated me.
It's not only a book about books: it's a book about the way literature allows us to define and restage our traumas by providing us with any sort of Doppelgänger. Literature as a door, a threshold - or rather a tunnel through the overlapping strata of consciousness that progressively accumulate in any human biography.
This is indeed an autobiography; but this is Kathy Acker too. Things can't be that simple when it comes to the greatest female po-mo novelist, praised by William Burroughs as one of his few heirs.
What she does here is an impressive work of de(con)struction of the self by means of literary characters impersonating all her existential dramatis personæ: all throughout the novel (actually a bewildering, mesmerising prose-poetry pastiche) revisited classics and avant-garde works give shape to the author's memories and images of herself as a child, young girl, married woman, stripper, artist, lover; desperate, ecstatic, successful, derelict; tore apart by inner conflicts and desires that fuelled her creativity as a writer as well as a woman. By continuously switching identity and genre, the author becomes the epitome of the Unreliable Narrator of postmodern fiction.
Neither a novel nor a memoir then; in her own words, this book is to be deciphered as "a psychic map of the present, therefore: the future."
Yes, deciphered. Because the net of literary references is so intricate that only by googling, racking my brains, testing my poor knowledge and rereading the text over and over I managed not to get lost in it. In fact this is possibly the best example of Kathy Acker's well-known technique, a unicum in which stream of consciousness, Burroughs' cut-ups and deliberate plagiarism are inextricably entangled.
After her mother's suicide, the author
"...started to experience a frame. Within this frame time was totally circular because I was being returned to my childhood traumas totally terrifying now because now these traumas are totally real: there is no buffer of memory."
Traumas and memory. That's what Acker's work is about.
The first part of her tale, aptly titled 'Plagiarism', is a mix of fractured recollections and excerpts from Pierre Guyotat's
Eden, Eden, Eden - one of the few books that really left me gaping. Hard to discern between reality and fantasy when Dickens'
Great Expectations
(hence the title), Proust's 'Recherche', grotesque parodies of 80s sitcoms, Jean Genet's dreamlike eroticism leak through the author's childhood memories, a time in which she experienced ambivalent feelings of love/hate for her mother and the lack of a father (born in a wealthy Jewish family, the child was deprived of the father figure from the very beginning: the man left long before Kathy's birth). Both factors influenced the young girl's perception of human nature and relationships, not to mention of her own place in that emotionally dry (when not overtly hostile) environment:
"I have the image obsession I'm scum", as she herself sums it up - see also her first and probably toughest novel,
Blood and Guts in High School. And:
" She realizes that she is at the same time a little girl absolutely pure nothing wrong just what she wants, and this unnameable dirt this thing. This is not a possible situation. This identity doesn't exist."
Besides her two failed marriages, all her relationships with both male and female partners are struggles between opposites, in the couple's dynamics as well as in her own mind and soul. In fact the sentimental and sexual dimensions of Acker's life converge in her experience as a stripper/whore/model, during which her physical and psychological masochism, rape fantasies, Freudian obsessions, recurrent nightmares are almost exorcised by the sordid reality she lives in.
Quite fittingly, she also plunders Pauline Réage's
Histoire d'O suivi de Retour à Roissy: erotic slavery, prostitution, voluntary suspension of thought and will as a means to be loved by her men are perfectly embodied by the charming Ô and her baroque masochism.
Once again, any attempt to discern between biography and symbolic imagery is utterly pointless.
Part Two, 'The Beginnings of Romance', is even more emotionally charged. In these pages Kathy analyses the passive part she's always willing to play in her love affairs, either by submitting to psychological violence or acting as a catalyst for her men's mental issues. Here's what she says about none other than Jackson Pollock:
"I not only understood, I understood and adored. I would be the pillow he would kick the warm breast he could cry into open up to let all that infinite unstoppable mainly unbearable pain be alive I would not snap back I would be his allowed of exhibited pain so he could keep going. That's why he loved me."
Keats' poem 'The Eve of St. Agnes' is the counterpoint to the narration of an important transition in her troubled life, just before she moves in with an artist (her second husband?): from now on she finds herself dealing with an entirely new burden of competition, incompatibility, erotic desire and sentimental idiosyncrasy. La Fayette's
La Princesse de Cléves is the literary alter ego she now identifies with.
By the way, Acker's thoughts about art and creativity - another recurrent subject in her work - are strikingly deep, and show a good deal of sensitivity with regards to the part an artist is supposed to play in modern society. The description of the Seattle artistic élite is just hilarious:
"Since the American culture allows only the material to be real, those who want to do art unless they transfer their art into non-art i.e. the making of commodities, can't earn money and stay alive. Almost every living artist who keeps on doing art has family money or at least one helpful sex partner. There're few artists whose work this society desires, for the country needs sone international propaganda (and there's nothing as harmless to a materialist as formalist experimentation)".
Well, no doubt our narrator did find her way despite all her insecurities:
"I'm going to tell you something. The author of the work you are now reading is a scared little shit. She's frightened, forget what her life's like, scared out of her wits, she doesn't believe what she believes..."
And it's Melville who speaks on her behalf about the pathos of the artistic adventure.
In the last part, 'The End', the main literary reference she picks is the Latin poet Propertius and his 'Cynthia' . Thus Acker dissects the dichotomy between love and sex, affection and sensuality, feelings and passion: the woman - keen on hedonism, materialism, eroticism, a prostitute and a narcissistic individual - and the poet - socially committed intellectual craving devotion and faithfulness - engage in a love dialogue that soon turns into a verbal assault, in which all the repressed conflicts of the author's soul burst out in a final declaration of intent.
As usual, no answers... or rather, too many answers at the same time. Because all we know for sure is that
"We shall define sexuality as that which can't be satisfied and therefore as that which transforms the person."
So.
No plot, fragmented narration, narrative planes twisting and overlapping, shameless plagiarism, unconventional syntax, experimental language... explicit contents and imagery.
The apotheosis of postmodern meta-fiction, a masterful example of antinovel, a chaotic cluster of philosophical musings and digressions, a monument to literary plagiarism as a weapon to destroy and rebuild literature.
All this in 128 pages.
Yes, Ladies and Gents... only 128 pages.
It's terrifying.
Good grief, I'd give both my kidneys to an organ trafficker to have half her genius.
I confess: whenever I meet someone like Kathy Acker, I fall hard and fast. Tormented, talented, educated, sexually ambivalent, brilliant, mentally unstable, full of contradictions... the sort of person I should avoid like the plague, because they tend to awake some dormant aspects of my personality that really should stay where they belong. And it invariably ends badly - for me, that is.
But.
Like it or not, one's nature always prevails over rationality. That's why I just can't stay away from Acker and her violent, poetic, cathartic writing.
Once I get trapped in a cobweb, I just can't wait to be eaten up by the spider.
Well, it's okay for me.
"We don't ever have to be ashamed of feelings of tears, for feelings are the rain upon the earth's blinding dust: our own hard egotistic hearts."
Hi, Kathy. A kiss, wherever you are now.
"We will meet in the place where there is no darkness." -
I read this way back when, when when was only just becoming when. That's few years back now.
Anyway, is it not true that if a songwriter writes something like Hallelujah or I Will Always Love You-oo a whole lot of people rush to record it and sometimes do really interesting & different versions - and some versions are better than the original, Jeff Buckley takes over Hallelujah completely just as Elvis took over Hound Dog and Big Mama Thornton was left looking askance. Yet in the world of fiction, this does not happen. Somebody writes a novel and it's supposed to be theirs & theirs alone. You touch my book, I slap you with a writ. Yeah? Yeah! But why can't someone else come along & write their version of your story? This is what Kathy Acker was revolutionalistically suggesting by rewriting very badly Great Expectations. The idea is that you put in a few jazz chords, take out that tiresome riff and add a new one, get rid of the sub plot about the neighbour's wife's suspicions that her son was a rent boy - good god, that was terrible - increase the bpm by a little bit not too much.
Well, there is stuff like Pride & Prejudice with Zombies but that's just silly. I was thinking more along the lines of re-doing The Lovely Bones where she doesn't die, so it's more cheerful, or rewriting Philip Roth novels so that the hero has great relationships with women and only has positive things to say about them - but of course keep the same plot and characters. That's important otherwise you might as well just write your own book. Maybe it wouldn't work with books, but it's completely normal in the world of pop songs. In fact songwriters are disappointed if no one else does their stuff. And the songwriters are artists but they don't go around saying "the guitar break has to stay" or "every word of this song has to be sung in the same way by the same person every time".
How silly would it be if authors demanded the same printer is used every time their novel is printed. Absurd. So - I'm quite excited about this - I'm thinking of doing a version of We Need to Talk About Kevin in which they do actually talk about Kevin, and they never buy him any archery lessons, so he puts his talents to use elsewhere and becomes a pretty good banjo player. He joins this little newgrass band, they end up doing really well and one of their albums gets nominated for a Grammy, but it doesn't win. And nobody dies. I think that's a much better version. -
Reason why I DNF'd after 11 pages:
"The soldiers wake up stand up again tuck in their canvas shirttails suck in cheeks stained by tears dried by the steam from hot train rails rub their sex against the tires, the trucks go down into a dry ford mow down a few rose-bushes, the sap mixes with disemboweled teenagers' blood on their knives' metal, the soldiers' nailed boots cut down uproot nursery plants,..."
Enough said.
And before you ask: no that was NOT the end of the sentence (another 9 or so lines), no I do NOT understand what is going on and no I did NOT forget the punctuation, there IS NONE. -
The personal interiorization of the practice of humiliation is called humility.
This is Jon typing. Jon has been reading. All day. Mortality has reaped recklessly as of late. Right now two people Jon loves are ill in a real bad way. Jon muses and frets. He reads. Jon loved this book despite it being Wrong. He'd love to quote and paste and rant-and-riff about LIFE. But he won't. Jon listens to Marcin Wasilewski and Morrissey. Jon can't turn off his brain. Jon wallows and wonders. He'd love to read more Acker, but not just yet. -
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and yeah Paul this is actually an interesting book but I definitely don't think it is your kinda interesting. know what I mean? -
I've been reading Kathy Acker in roughly chronological order, so I've had the pleasure of essentially seeing her honing her craft and develop her singular collage techniques. I'd rather expected to find her plots becoming a little more conventionally coherent in the process, but I'm pleased to report that though this is easily my favorite Acker yet, it's actually more broken up and disorienting than the last I'd read, it still feels more cohesive and gripping as a reading experience. I could "get lost in the story" which doesn't usually happen with Acker, though she's always very interesting.
Similar themes as usual here -- desire, gender and identity, the dislocation between sex and love, art and creativity, social unrest, feminism, porn -- this time framed in bits of unknown wartime horrors, the Story of O, and the tribulations of artists on both coasts. It works in smart and unexpected ways. -
’We shall define sexuality as that which can’t be satisfied and therefore as that which transforms the person.’
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I have a soft spot for this one, I believe the first Kathy Acker novel I ever read. (I read a short text she'd written for an art anthology called, humorously, Just Another Asshole where her work stood out so much I sought out her novels.) Overall Great Expectations isn't as epic as the later, longer novels but it is probably her most personal work and very characteristic of her style of appropriation. I think I've already said it in reviews of her later novels, but Acker has this interesting technique of appropriating other texts, of beginning with characters, motifs, and even direct quotations of other authors and yet being one of the most easily recognizably individual authors of all time. there's no mistaking an Acker. You recognize her "voice" so easily and quickly. Yet, as she says, it's writing that's "all fake (copied from other writing) so you should go away and not read it."
Linguistic paradox, therefore, marks her work. As does experimentation. Which is more evident in Great Expectations. Here, too, experimentation at the linguistic and syntactic level--which is not nearly as evident in the later novels as it is in this one. (I saw one review that quoted a run-on, conglomerate sentence as the reason the reviewer failed to read beyond a few pages. My condolences.) As a writer more naturally prone to experimentation at the linguistic, rather than the greater formal level, that's probably what excited me most about Great Expectations when I first read it back in the mid-1980's. Lately, re-reading all of her novels from the last backward to the first, I've been struck more by the terse brevity of most of her sentences and marveling at the effects she gets by the juxtapositions of different statements--some stolen, some meta-narrative, some contradictory, and many very personal. In her fine biography of Acker, Chris Krause mentioned that Acker often cannibalized her personal journals so that explains the personal.
The personal traumas of her mother's death and her own agonizing about sex and love and various boyfriends and partners works well here within a frame of Dickens's bildungsroman (the story of the sentimental education of a young man) and Sextus Propertius's romantic difficulties.
PS This is a good place to begin if you've never read Acker--short, indicative, brilliant--even if it's not her best. -
Acker hitting her stride in the early 80s. Dreamlike, lush to harsh, fugue-like layers of "appropriation" and "auto-fiction" before those things were even a thing, the last chapters sexy/suicidal grooves.
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No doubt the late Ms. Acker would abhor the whole notion of a star rating system, probably regarding it as the by-product of the capitalist patriarchy's emphasis on hierarchical order. This order, Acker and other postmodern punk feminists would argue, is a necessary precondition for perpetuating the hegemony of man (specifically, the white, heterosexual, socially dominant, predatory male). And so, a seemingly lukewarm 3-star rating coming from me, a white heterosexual male, would seem to validate this notion.
But really, I see this more as a coin flip, for the novel rapidly vacillates between intentional impenetrability/unreadability (one star) and devastatingly acute feminist critique (five stars). Just as Schrodinger's cat ( a popular reference point for postmodernists) is simultaneously alive and dead until the observer detects a cat that is either alive or dead, so too does this patchwork of plagiarized texts, explicit pornographic passages, juxtapositions of historical figures, and realistic psychological observations forever exist in a flux between conventional narrative insight and deconstructed playfulness which, if nothing else represents "action" which "breaks through deadness".
What balances the emotionally detached experimentalism of long stretches of the novel are equal doses of genuine pathos arising from surprisingly straightforward depictions of kitchen sink domestic realism. Consider this bit of dialogue from one of the several trapped, victimized female characters: "But I want him to love me. He's never going to give me what I want, but I'll still f*** him." Lines such as these, in direct, devastating fashion, capture the dilemma of many (most?) women navigating the minefield of love and marriage. In this regard, the middle section, detailing the tenuous relationship between Clifford and Sarah, is a triumph of feminine psychological insight and render this uncompromising novel worth reading even for the skittish and unadventurous. -
Dicen de Kathy que su obra es muy personal, personalísima incluso. Nunca sé muy bien qué pensar cuando se utiliza el sufijo “-ísimo/a”. Es mucho, tanto que no tenemos otro adjetivo para denominar la “grandeza” de aquello a lo que nos referimos. Personalísima, generalísimo; “-ísimos” en definitiva. También suelen decir de ella que estaba influenciada por la pornografía y el sexo. Me pregunto, sabiendo la respuesta, de cuántos hombres se dice lo mismo. Yo prefiero decir que Kathy era única, disfrutaba de su cuerpo y de los ejercicios que podía llevar a cabo con él, y que, en definitiva, era inteligentísima.
“Grandes esperanzas” es tremendo. En el mejor de los sentidos, o los sinsentidos. Durante unos breves minutos, al comienzo de la lectura, me dije a mí misma que me había metido en un buen lío, y como soy una “buena chica”, no quería estar en esa posición. Sin embargo, al ir avanzando en la lectura me di cuenta de que no era tan tonta como los demás niños me decían en la escuela. _Las chicas no os enteráis, no tenéis ni idea de nada_. Una vez confirmado, le dije a mi voz interior masculina, que representa en mi mente la voz de, en general, todos los hombres que he conocido a lo largo de mi vida y que se han comportado como auténticos idiotas, que cerrase el pico. Así pude seguir leyendo y riéndome sola por toda la casa. Aunque en realidad no estaba sola; estaba con Kathy. Y ambas nos estábamos riendo de todos los inútiles que hemos conocido a lo largo de estos años. Ella de los suyos y yo de los míos, pero en realidad vienen a ser los mismos.
Monólogos de personajes reinterpretados de la literatura universal, pequeñas obras de teatro realmente divertidas, cartas absolutamente locas dirigidas, por ejemplo, a Susan Sontag, ¿qué no hay entre sus páginas? Además de reírte y disfrutar, cuando lees este libro te empoderas. Sí, porque cuando lees atrocidades tan sutilmente narradas sobre, por ejemplo, soldados que violan a las nativas de los países que las potencias mundiales invaden, no solo te enfadas; sacas fuerza de donde no sabes que la tienes, pero que Kathy sí, y por eso te está llevando ahí, para seguir en la lucha por los derechos y las reparaciones de todas las mujeres de este apestoso mundo patriarcal.
Y no sé si os estoy diciendo de qué va el libro; lo que sí sé, y espero que quede claro, es que estoy enamorada de Kathy Acker, que voy a leer toda su obra, incluido un libro sobre un Don Quijote hembra que azota con fustas a curas mientras gritan, o no, de placer, y que yo os la recomiendo sin miedo a decir que nunca habréis leído nada igual. -
…. aw fuck
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«Mi idea de felicidad es la insensibilidad»
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¡¡Acker nunca defrauda!! Vaya tía tengo la sensación de ir treinta pasos por detrás mientras ella nos adelantó por la derecha a todos hace mucho tiempo
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Remake punk de la novela de Dickens. “Cualquier acción sin importar cuán excéntrica -esto explica el punk- abre brecha en lo inerte”. Esta novela yonqui, centón de múltiples textos clásicos, requiere una inmersión lírica no siempre fácil en las obsesiones de la autora.
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wut
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Det är svårt att riktigt njuta av en bok när man vet att den här boken är vad som står mellan en och ens sommarlov. (10 sidor tenta om denna boken dessutom)
Boken skulle jag kanske snarast beskriva som en Écriture féminine-remix av Naked Lunch (två rätt obskyra referenser att använda, jag ber om ursäkt). Det handlar om prostitution, masochism, konstnärer, att verkligen älska sin mamma, sexuella övergrepp i krig osv.
Roligaste var kanske den delen där en karaktär säljer lösnummer av den ultraintellektuella tidskriften (semiotext(e)) i ett gathörn och ser ut som en hobo. Det eller att sluta sina kapitel med en kolon: -
I would like to give it more stars. Groundbreaking work should get all the encouragement one can give, but I just didn't understand it. Fortunately, in a way, I didn't expect to like the book and I was not disappointed. I was pleased to discover several shorter passages that did move me.
- Obviously the rules which govern the dress and conduct of the terrorists don't apply to her. (48)
- You put all thoughts away. Thoughts can be present in those hiatuses when you're not a machine moving to survive. (48)
- Self-reflective consciousness is narrational. (58)
- My emotional limbs stuck out as if they were broken and unfixable. (58)
- I had to keep the joy growing to blot out my consciousness of what was happening to me. Sensuous beauty is its own perfect excuse, for it brings itself into existence. (73)
- I hate the inside of my mind. (74)
- In Paris policemen wearing blue triangular hats walk past buildings smaller them themselves and murderers look like each other and wear black. The ornamentation of Venice is precise a fairytale. The Roman streets lie sunlit, though there's is no sun, where rooms, above, wander into room after room so that inside is outside though it isn't. (74-75)
- SARAH (to the waiter): Uh ... Uh I, I ... don't want anything. I'm not really very happy. Thank you. (92)
- Portrait In Red
Red everywhere. Red up the river, where it flows among the green pines and old mining camps; red down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of the shipping and the dock pollutions of a going-to-be-great (and going-to-be-dirtier) city. Red on the rain marshes, red on Queen Anne Hill. Red creeping into each of the abandoned cabooses; red creeping over the half-torn-away train tracks and lying on each weed; red climbed over the hacked-up docks into the commercial steel ships. Red in each longshoreman's eyes when he returns home and slaps his wife around red at the end of the cigarette butt red in the dynamite red of the fire. Red of the eyelid and nose flesh of the bums walking down First Avenue past the more monetarily successful artist. Red the colors of the condos they're building over the bodies of old people who now have nowhere to live. Red the artist's hand not from paint but from striking his lover's face out of repressed fear. (94-95)
- Criminalities, which are understandable, mix with religious practices, for people have to do anything to satisfy that which can no longer be satisfied (107)
- I am only an obsession. Don't talk to me otherwise. Don't know me. Do you think I exist?
Watch out. Madness is a reality, not a perversion. (119) -
"If you read from end to end of the Greek Anthology, you won't find a love poem where the character of individuality of the woman who's loved matters."
I wasn't prepared for Kathy Acker and I can offer no judgment on her writing. I want to read more, but not for a long time.
Most of the book is cock-in-cunt violence, but every so often something very erudite and introspective and interesting appears, and I can't say that I liked those bits over others because it's all necessary to the book itself. Necessary to the effect.
I've decided I liked this book. It was like reading Dworkin but more poetic and amoral.
I like Dworkin's non-fiction because she uses the language of violent misogyny to drive her argument, and even when I don't agree with her thesis, I have to silently admire the force of her style. Acker seems to use that gross de-eroticised (for me anyway) sexual language for a more oblique literary purpose. It's even more discomfiting because I can't make sense of it.
I read the book quickly because I had to - I couldn't stop and think about what was being said, I couldn't turn back. I didn't enjoy it but I liked it. I have no reason to think her other books are any different, but I hope that when I come around to reading more I won't find what was shocking here quietly dull. -
This is one of Acker's lushest books, but one of her most caustic books as well. One could argue that all her books are simultaneously sadistic and masochistic...this one being no exception in that regard...the Dickens title and parody refer more to the expectations artists hold for the artistic life, and she brutally dissects all this with the eye of an economist...she equates the economies that thrive in art with the basest forms of prostitution....but the language is richly baroque and the images are exquisitely tooled...I think comparisons with Cellini would be pretty apt...both the gold and silversmithing of her masterfully tooled pictures of desire and the totally amoral lifestyle....
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much much better than blood and guts in high school, still too hyper violent and i mostly skipped the beginning stuff because it just has so much sexual violence and i truly believe its pointless. BUT i do think there were moments of good writing and more interesting stuff & more sensitive, but nuanced rep of the pains of womanhood and patriarchy? still a bit of a miss tho! ?!
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Not as good as Blood And Guts In The High School but if you're after more Kathy Acker (or if you haven't read that book first) then you'll love this anyway. Nice how she subverts the story of the original Great Expectations with the references to failed actresses and abstract painters, making it very "of it's time"
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Moments of great virtuosity and devastating, incisive social critique. I've never been able to get into Acker's work before, though I admire her experimentation with pastiche and collage, but Great Expectations, after a shaky start, pulled me under its currents.
It's violent and brutal and very, very explicit (especially when you're reading it on the bus to work, as I did). It felt agonizing to read sometimes, but also necessary. It's a brutality that retains a lingering hope behind it, though it simultaneously recognizes that hope as naive in the extreme.
Overly symbolic writers often exhaust me; I always think, do you really live your entire life believing that every single action or event has twelve thousand deeper meanings? But with Acker, the symbolism feels like the only natural way to understand her world. It is a world made entirely of symbols, of things that mean other things, of things that stand in for myriad others.
I should also probably confess that despite studying English Literature for years, I've never read Dickens' Great Expectations, so aside from the most obvious borrowings, I probably wasn't getting at least some of the nuances of character and plot - though the deviation from Dickens is so obviously, intensely radical that I think reading it solely as a 'retelling' of Dickens' Great Expectations would be doing Acker a disservice. I think of Dickens more as a point from which Acker's work leaps off into uncharted territory.
For me, that leap paid off - I finished the book with many of its pages earmarked for further examination, because her words (whether borrowed, taken from others, or reshaped) are always wholly inventive. Acker's voice in Great Expectations is always so vivid and idiosyncratic, even when she's ripping material wholesale from other texts. It's the way she repurposes the words, the new contexts she puts them into, that create the art. -
I am very much into Kathy Acker and how she is able to write an entire book on sensation. I am big fan of the playwright Sarah Kane, so I am sort of at home in this experimental piece. I feel like I am bound to return to this novel and read more of her works. They are worth revisiting.
I do not recommend this book to everyone though. Stay away if you cannot handle a novel that will bite you constantly until you enjoy it. This book is kinky. -
What I think this book is doing: taking the essence of Dickens' work and demonstrating what we know to be true of literature: its ability to endure time and remain relevant. I think in order to get the most out of Acker's version, you have to abandon attachment to character just enough that the plot becomes about itself driving itself forward, and that characters could be anywhere at any time, with anything and everything going on around them.
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Nothing could have prepared me for this book. I don’t think anyone could ever fully understand this book either. But either way, I loved this as much as I could love a book which reads like the literary equivalent of a bad trip.
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read excerpt “the end.” similar to the other acker i read, i find it fun to read in short chunks but once you take a step back you see how insanely pretentious and ridiculous it is lol. acker is twisted and sadistic and fun but maybe not genius.
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3.5. This is a tough one. Going to have to think this through and detail my struggles with it on the blog.
