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cherylcheng00's review against another edition
1.0
Guardian said it best: Please don’t encourage Morrissey to write any more novels. http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2015/sep/24/morrissey-what-we-learned-about-him-from-list-of-the-lost
Apparently this book was not edited, because it features so many off-topic tangents that you have no idea where it is going. The characters are hardly developed, and the overall plot is ridiculous. Morrissey really should have written a book of his rants rather than pretend to couch them in an undeveloped story of nonsense.
Apparently this book was not edited, because it features so many off-topic tangents that you have no idea where it is going. The characters are hardly developed, and the overall plot is ridiculous. Morrissey really should have written a book of his rants rather than pretend to couch them in an undeveloped story of nonsense.
pinkalpaca's review against another edition
3.0
Wow, this book has a lot of hate. Which is what happens I guess when Morrissey writes something or says something or eats something or...anyway I digress. So at first I was a bit put off; it's verbose, it's dense, it's...a bit boring. We'd already learned before that Mr. Moz doesn't particularly care for indentation. I stuck with with it, 'cause hello, Morrissey wrote it! And it's like barely over 100 pages long.
Every time I picked the book up, I found myself really getting into it after a page or two. Morrissey definitely has his own style (which is to be expected), but it reminded me of Beat fiction. It's just a different rhythm than everything else. There's lots of alliteration and snappy little lyrical (!) phrases. As for the story, it's a moment in time, turning this way and that way and this way and that way, rather unexpectedly.
So it's not the greatest work of literature ever, so what? I didn't expect it to be. I think it's clear Moz enjoyed writing it and it's rather refreshing to read a piece of writing that's so unusual from everything else. It's also great that people feel so free to completely tear down an artist's work. Ah, people's opinions, where would we be without them?
Every time I picked the book up, I found myself really getting into it after a page or two. Morrissey definitely has his own style (which is to be expected), but it reminded me of Beat fiction. It's just a different rhythm than everything else. There's lots of alliteration and snappy little lyrical (!) phrases. As for the story, it's a moment in time, turning this way and that way and this way and that way, rather unexpectedly.
So it's not the greatest work of literature ever, so what? I didn't expect it to be. I think it's clear Moz enjoyed writing it and it's rather refreshing to read a piece of writing that's so unusual from everything else. It's also great that people feel so free to completely tear down an artist's work. Ah, people's opinions, where would we be without them?
debumere's review against another edition
1.0
I got halfway through this book before abandoning it, and that, in itself, is a massive achievement.
The language is so highbrow and Morrissey is deadly intent in trying to prove his intelligence and position as next to Godly.
Using descriptions such as 'Splendiferous stockbroking hamlets', 'locked together in a triangular scrum of strong arms and choked sobs', and 'who is to say that their closeness was not in fact a liberating scream of the intensely sensual?' made me feel deep anger rising.
Really, Morrissey, really?
One for the fire. Only benefit you can actually get out of this book.
The language is so highbrow and Morrissey is deadly intent in trying to prove his intelligence and position as next to Godly.
Using descriptions such as 'Splendiferous stockbroking hamlets', 'locked together in a triangular scrum of strong arms and choked sobs', and 'who is to say that their closeness was not in fact a liberating scream of the intensely sensual?' made me feel deep anger rising.
Really, Morrissey, really?
One for the fire. Only benefit you can actually get out of this book.
tashberbank's review against another edition
1.0
Having read Morrissey's incredible Autobiography earlier this year, to find out he had a debut novel set for release excited me.
Well how disappointed was I?
The moments of brilliance were fleeting, and having trawled through page after page of never ending preaching that had absolutely nothing to do with the characters, to only have a few sentences of vague interest was hugely disappointing.
The plot is absolutely non existent - a sense of a story seems to fade in an out - something to do with a murder comes and goes between Morrissey's extended and unrelated rants.
This book is the epitome of why celebrities who write books later in their career as a last ditch attempt at making some money are always a complete embarrassment. They are so self indulgent that they are incapable of writing characters different from themselves. This book reeks of Morrissey's discomfort with sexuality (possibly the worst sex scene I have ever read) and his contempt of the legal system. This book is suffocated by Morrissey's personality.
The only reason I managed to make it to the end of this book was the fact it was so short - although in my opinion this novella is 118 pages too long.
If this was by any other writer, it wouldn't have made it as far as the bookshelves of my local Waterstones, in fact, it probably wouldn't have made it much further than the rubbish bin of any publisher. However, Penguin have shown what absolute suck up's they are to a celebrity fad by releasing this pretentious drivel.
Morrissey - stick to the day job.
Well how disappointed was I?
The moments of brilliance were fleeting, and having trawled through page after page of never ending preaching that had absolutely nothing to do with the characters, to only have a few sentences of vague interest was hugely disappointing.
The plot is absolutely non existent - a sense of a story seems to fade in an out - something to do with a murder comes and goes between Morrissey's extended and unrelated rants.
This book is the epitome of why celebrities who write books later in their career as a last ditch attempt at making some money are always a complete embarrassment. They are so self indulgent that they are incapable of writing characters different from themselves. This book reeks of Morrissey's discomfort with sexuality (possibly the worst sex scene I have ever read) and his contempt of the legal system. This book is suffocated by Morrissey's personality.
The only reason I managed to make it to the end of this book was the fact it was so short - although in my opinion this novella is 118 pages too long.
If this was by any other writer, it wouldn't have made it as far as the bookshelves of my local Waterstones, in fact, it probably wouldn't have made it much further than the rubbish bin of any publisher. However, Penguin have shown what absolute suck up's they are to a celebrity fad by releasing this pretentious drivel.
Morrissey - stick to the day job.
indistilling's review
adventurous
dark
mysterious
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
2.0
emilymulvogue's review
dark
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
1.0
isabellediggle's review
I was really excited to read this as Morrissey has reached icon status and written some beautiful lyrics. However, this novella was bloated, verbose language failing to conceal Moz's views on the world; some of these (vegetarianism) were palatable but others (misogyny) were not. The plot and characters were barely present in the novel meaning I had no interest in them. This is one of the only books in my life I have not finished but I just couldn't continue to be infantilised and condescended by the author.
captainfez's review against another edition
1.0
Oh, Manchester. So much to answer for.
Look, I'm not going to lie. I'm a Morrissey fan. A big Morrissey fan. I wasn't for a long time, but then something suddenly made sense, and I was all in on the guy. Smiths, solo, everything. I thought his Autobiography was compelling, and in places a lot more sweetly honest than any observer of the artist's turn of phrase could have expected.
And now, this. It's a novella, once again on Penguin, ostensibly about a team of runners in 1970s Boston. Who accidentally kill a vagrant-appearing demon and then are cursed.
Wait, what?
Yep. That. The problem is that it's not the largest problem of the work. List of the Lost is something so incomplete that calling it a first draft is giving it too much credit. There's enormous chunks of text without paragraph breaks, style-to-the-wind application of bolding or large chunks of narrative thrown into italic because there's a good reason somewhere, except Morrissey isn't keen to share it with his reader because REASONS. The work badly needs an editor, and a stern talking-to.
But what happened to the lyricist who penned some of the most memorable, incisive words of the past couple of decades? He's reduced to lots of internal rhyme which at first glance may appear a kind of Joycean flight of fancy, but on repeated exposure seems less eternal yes and more covert wank on the strand. And then, of course, there's lines like this:
(That's without going into the couple of award-winning terrible sex scenes. Try them sometime, I guarantee there's something physically impossible in both.)
On the back of the book, Morrissey warns us to beware the novelist. Inside it, a character laments a life story that Edgar Allan Poe couldn't concoct. They are both correct. The only thing that gives me hope about the author's future written efforts is that I know that no matter how disappointed I am in this work - and I am, as I'm quite the fan - he'll be much, much more bummed.
Look, I'm not going to lie. I'm a Morrissey fan. A big Morrissey fan. I wasn't for a long time, but then something suddenly made sense, and I was all in on the guy. Smiths, solo, everything. I thought his Autobiography was compelling, and in places a lot more sweetly honest than any observer of the artist's turn of phrase could have expected.
And now, this. It's a novella, once again on Penguin, ostensibly about a team of runners in 1970s Boston. Who accidentally kill a vagrant-appearing demon and then are cursed.
Wait, what?
Yep. That. The problem is that it's not the largest problem of the work. List of the Lost is something so incomplete that calling it a first draft is giving it too much credit. There's enormous chunks of text without paragraph breaks, style-to-the-wind application of bolding or large chunks of narrative thrown into italic because there's a good reason somewhere, except Morrissey isn't keen to share it with his reader because REASONS. The work badly needs an editor, and a stern talking-to.
But what happened to the lyricist who penned some of the most memorable, incisive words of the past couple of decades? He's reduced to lots of internal rhyme which at first glance may appear a kind of Joycean flight of fancy, but on repeated exposure seems less eternal yes and more covert wank on the strand. And then, of course, there's lines like this:
Whoever put the pain in painting had also put the fun in funeral.Reader, meet author. The story duly works over the demon-slaying runners, by way of the usual Morrissey bugbears: boxers, royalty, judiciary, concealed sexuality, Thatcher et al. And yet, given fiction's freedom over subjects close to his heart, the writer produces something that - it pains me to say - is so much less than any of his songs about the very same things.
(That's without going into the couple of award-winning terrible sex scenes. Try them sometime, I guarantee there's something physically impossible in both.)
On the back of the book, Morrissey warns us to beware the novelist. Inside it, a character laments a life story that Edgar Allan Poe couldn't concoct. They are both correct. The only thing that gives me hope about the author's future written efforts is that I know that no matter how disappointed I am in this work - and I am, as I'm quite the fan - he'll be much, much more bummed.