Saturday, September 13, 2008

Tom Vanderbilt's Traffic

Will Self steers readers along a narcissistic route (and, one cannot fail but note, given the reviewer's self-fondness, it's not by accident [alone]). No rush, not at this ungawdly hour . . .

2 comments:

  1. If there's a polar opposite of folksy, Will Self has achieved it. He's written some of the most preposterously overcooked prose I've ever read. Martin Amis comes in a close second. Ugh. Some of Self's ideas are so clever, but talk about being unable to get through a book. Yeesh.

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  2. Truer words never spoken, Katie. I think I developed a terminal aversion to his self-absorbed creepiness when How the Dead Live reared its uglies c. 2002. It was the story of Lily Bloom's calcified foetus following her around singing; and I thought, at that time, Of course, only Will Self could conceive a character from within his own deranged sense of self. Ugh? Ughly Lithopaedion plus willful unskillfulness.

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