You need to sign in or sign up before continuing.
Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.75 AVERAGE
3.75 AVERAGE
slow-paced
This evokes Ayn Rand and her love of architecture--an appalling thing--and is among the most senseless and least perceptive book I've ever read (as well as being the single worst book among the hundreds I've read about New York). His descriptions are hollow and empty when they aren't completely insipid, and there's nothing he says that hasn't been said 8 million times (and said better) 75 years ago. Only a white person would use the terms "self abuse" and "sanitation engineer" to prove their liberal PC bona fides. It's all talk of business, and old buildings, and how we are shaped by the apartments we've occupied (when in fact those are completely gentrified, as was NYC by that time).
He comes across like a retarded third grade psychopath with fascist beliefs, even as he derides some kid for being the king of the playground due solely to a "hormonal problem" (gee, how did masculinity become viewed as toxic, when Trans ideology and body positivity are the usual message?). He's shallow, superficial, privileged, of below average intelligence, can't write a lick, and he's as big an Uncle Tom as Ta Nahesi Coates (though neither compare to Ross Gay, the black Garrison Keillor).
Apologies to the moronic Grace Lichtenstein who blurbed the book, but he's not authentic, and this is the most wholly inauthentic and white bread book ever written by a black person (not named Ross Gay).
Pathetic, on every level. Only a psychopath would believe a landlord could ever earn his wings....
He comes across like a retarded third grade psychopath with fascist beliefs, even as he derides some kid for being the king of the playground due solely to a "hormonal problem" (gee, how did masculinity become viewed as toxic, when Trans ideology and body positivity are the usual message?). He's shallow, superficial, privileged, of below average intelligence, can't write a lick, and he's as big an Uncle Tom as Ta Nahesi Coates (though neither compare to Ross Gay, the black Garrison Keillor).
Apologies to the moronic Grace Lichtenstein who blurbed the book, but he's not authentic, and this is the most wholly inauthentic and white bread book ever written by a black person (not named Ross Gay).
Pathetic, on every level. Only a psychopath would believe a landlord could ever earn his wings....
challenging
funny
informative
reflective
medium-paced
love letter to nyc, poetic and gritty prose with some dashes of magical realism. loved it, should revisit for ideas re: city narratives.
funny
informative
reflective
relaxing
fast-paced
My friend recommended this to me and I'm so grateful! Absolutely adored the section on nodding to your old apartments and now nobody's nyc is the same :')
”Talking about New York is a way of talking about the world.”
Written nearly 20 years ago, yet still perfectly relevant and seemingly contemporary, The Colossus of New York is a bakers dozen of vignettes set in various locations mostly around Manhattan, and is ostensibly about life in the Big Apple. But I would argue Colsen Whitehead is aiming for something a bit more than just that. I feel he’s using New York City as an excuse to write about people as a species, and to find the little things we all share. He mostly succeeds.
You have all kinds of people in this city, too many to box up and label. Whitehead tries to fit every single one inside the 13 stories, seamlessly moving from one type to another. Nearly every line is a thought from a different person. Instead of devolving into some Dadaist stream-of-conscious prose poetry, the grounding in a location (subway; Brooklyn Bridge; a rain storm) allows the reader to follow along. Make no mistake, this book is written by a New Yorker, but there is ample room devoted to the transplants, the transients and the newly arrived.
“I was born here and thus ruined for anywhere else, but I don't know about you. Maybe you're from here, too, and sooner or later it will come out that we used to live a block away from each other and didn't even know it. Or maybe you moved here a couple years ago for a job. Maybe you came here for school. Maybe you saw the brochure. The city has spent a considerable amount of time and money putting the brochure together, what with all the movies, TV shows and songs- the whole If You Can Make It There business. The city also puts a lot of effort into making your hometown look really drab and tiny, just in case you were wondering why it's such a drag to go back sometimes.”
This is the truth in a paragraph. I live in New York. Brooklyn, specifically. But I was raised in a small New England fishing town, then lived in cute little Austin, TX for 12 years, then came here to this crazy megatropolis as a stopover to somewhere else while hustling to make a career. I never looked back or anywhere else to go. I’m one of millions. But what’s beautiful about this city, and this book, is that ultimately we are all human and share so many common things/dreams/feelings. There are so many shared moments that if you’ve spent 20 minutes in any city you’ll nod your head at some point while reading.
Whitehead helps with some wonderful imagery at times. Like when describing a gnarly storm…
”At the corner he wrestles with a ghost for the soul of his umbrella. The gust gains the upper hand as he waits for the light to change and the umbrella is ripped inverse.”
Probably my favorite line in the 160 pages.
But with the lyrical style comes a drawback: it starts to get stale. By the 11th or 12th story, Whitehead starts to fall back on archetypes, and loses some of that connective imagery so potent in the first several stories. I started to lose that feeling of common bond. The jumping from thought to thought became tedium, and sadly by the last story I was checking out. But man, the first 6 or 7 stories are incredible, as if you’re in the minds of a bus full of people at once. Sometimes you can relate, sometimes you’re incredulous at the thought, but they always felt unique and real.
You should read these stories, even if you’ve never set a toe inside NYC. There’s something in here for everyone, much like the city. I feel like that’s what the writer wanted, and if so he succeeded.
Written nearly 20 years ago, yet still perfectly relevant and seemingly contemporary, The Colossus of New York is a bakers dozen of vignettes set in various locations mostly around Manhattan, and is ostensibly about life in the Big Apple. But I would argue Colsen Whitehead is aiming for something a bit more than just that. I feel he’s using New York City as an excuse to write about people as a species, and to find the little things we all share. He mostly succeeds.
You have all kinds of people in this city, too many to box up and label. Whitehead tries to fit every single one inside the 13 stories, seamlessly moving from one type to another. Nearly every line is a thought from a different person. Instead of devolving into some Dadaist stream-of-conscious prose poetry, the grounding in a location (subway; Brooklyn Bridge; a rain storm) allows the reader to follow along. Make no mistake, this book is written by a New Yorker, but there is ample room devoted to the transplants, the transients and the newly arrived.
“I was born here and thus ruined for anywhere else, but I don't know about you. Maybe you're from here, too, and sooner or later it will come out that we used to live a block away from each other and didn't even know it. Or maybe you moved here a couple years ago for a job. Maybe you came here for school. Maybe you saw the brochure. The city has spent a considerable amount of time and money putting the brochure together, what with all the movies, TV shows and songs- the whole If You Can Make It There business. The city also puts a lot of effort into making your hometown look really drab and tiny, just in case you were wondering why it's such a drag to go back sometimes.”
This is the truth in a paragraph. I live in New York. Brooklyn, specifically. But I was raised in a small New England fishing town, then lived in cute little Austin, TX for 12 years, then came here to this crazy megatropolis as a stopover to somewhere else while hustling to make a career. I never looked back or anywhere else to go. I’m one of millions. But what’s beautiful about this city, and this book, is that ultimately we are all human and share so many common things/dreams/feelings. There are so many shared moments that if you’ve spent 20 minutes in any city you’ll nod your head at some point while reading.
Whitehead helps with some wonderful imagery at times. Like when describing a gnarly storm…
”At the corner he wrestles with a ghost for the soul of his umbrella. The gust gains the upper hand as he waits for the light to change and the umbrella is ripped inverse.”
Probably my favorite line in the 160 pages.
But with the lyrical style comes a drawback: it starts to get stale. By the 11th or 12th story, Whitehead starts to fall back on archetypes, and loses some of that connective imagery so potent in the first several stories. I started to lose that feeling of common bond. The jumping from thought to thought became tedium, and sadly by the last story I was checking out. But man, the first 6 or 7 stories are incredible, as if you’re in the minds of a bus full of people at once. Sometimes you can relate, sometimes you’re incredulous at the thought, but they always felt unique and real.
You should read these stories, even if you’ve never set a toe inside NYC. There’s something in here for everyone, much like the city. I feel like that’s what the writer wanted, and if so he succeeded.
funny
lighthearted
reflective
fast-paced
As much a feeling as a story, Whitehead conjures up the hustle and hate and love of New York City. He brings you on tours of the subway, across the bridge with those lost and into restaurants with those hoping to be found. A tour of nostalgia and of discovery, very much the feelings of a city.