Another book that coincidentally happens to be one of Penguin’s “Great Books” of the 20th Century. Kinda makes me wonder if I should read them all. Mysteriously, they chose Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man by James Joyce and not Ulysses, which makes the whole list kind of questionable – unless they chose books on the basis that people might actually be able to *read* the whole thing. Or perhaps the list was chosen by actual penguins. Anyway, my great distaste for James Joyce (though I do appreciate the advances he made in fiction writing and the influence he had on many of my favorite writers, I just don’t want to read his work myself because it bores me senseless) has nothing to do with this book.
This book is an excellent commentary on death and technology; though not in the way that I anticipated. It’s hard to explain, but I hadn’t expected it to be so… ordinary… and I was pleasantly surprised. I had seen this book classified as sci-fi somewhere or another, so I was expecting something far more elaborate. I would definitely like to tell whoever made THAT categorization that they are totally doing it wrong. A scientific event does not mean that the book can be classified as true “sci-fi.” Not at all. Everything in the book takes place in the world of reality as we know it. The same banal reality that we know and love (or loathe, as the case may be).
This book was also surprisingly hilarious. Like, laugh out loud funny. Except that I read parts of this on the plane and didn’t want to be that weirdo, so I kind of just smiled and giggled on the inside. That was indeed a pleasant surprise.
So yes. Death. Consumer culture. Hilarity. What more do you want in a book? I mean, truly, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, BITCHES?!