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2.08 AVERAGE
2.08 AVERAGE
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.
challenging
dark
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Siento que mucha de las criticas que se hacen a este libro tienen que ver con criticas hacia morrissey, ya sea porque a la gente no le gusta su música o por sus opiniones tan abiertamente expresadas sobre la industria de la carne, los gobiernos y la sexualidad. esas criticas son estúpidas y ciegan a quien empiece a leer este libro ya con la mente cerrada, esperando lo peor.
El libro presenta una historia original, contada con poesía y ritmo que son característicos no solo de como morrissey canta si no también de como habla. los personajes se sienten fantasiosos en el mejor de los sentidos, como cuando uno fantasea sobre esas tardes que nos marcaron en nuestra niñez o como esos amigos que nunca jamas vimos. puede que mi opinión este inclinada por el enorme amor que tengo por morrissey, siempre sentí que nos entendemos, que nos sentimos de igual manera sobre lo ridícula y a veces injusta que es la vida, pero es un libro que cualquiera puede disfrutar, me parece a mi.
El libro presenta una historia original, contada con poesía y ritmo que son característicos no solo de como morrissey canta si no también de como habla. los personajes se sienten fantasiosos en el mejor de los sentidos, como cuando uno fantasea sobre esas tardes que nos marcaron en nuestra niñez o como esos amigos que nunca jamas vimos. puede que mi opinión este inclinada por el enorme amor que tengo por morrissey, siempre sentí que nos entendemos, que nos sentimos de igual manera sobre lo ridícula y a veces injusta que es la vida, pero es un libro que cualquiera puede disfrutar, me parece a mi.
dark
reflective
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:
Complicated
Pretentious sad-white-man syndrome. He tries too hard and fails too obviously to emulate the Beats. It's insulting to the entire genre.
As expected, there are multiple sexist passages and that's already forgiving other 'isms.' But kuddos for the criticism of neo-liberalism and racism. At least, we can rest assured he only hates migrants for media attention.
As expected, there are multiple sexist passages and that's already forgiving other 'isms.' But kuddos for the criticism of neo-liberalism and racism. At least, we can rest assured he only hates migrants for media attention.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Child death, Death, Murder
Moderate: Child abuse
Minor: Sexism
Oh man.
I was really excited that Morrissey was releasing a book. I was excited for all the wrong reasons. I love The Smiths, I loved Morrissey’s autobiography, I love the myth of Morrissey. It hurts me to say this but Morrissey – the author of fiction – is awful. I don’t mean a little bit terrible, I mean this book – List of the Lost -brings awful to a whole new level.
I would love to be able to explain the plot of the story to you but unfortunately it got lost beneath the dirge of words used elsewhere. The narrative was so erratic I couldn’t find any understanding at all. The only parts that seemed to be clear happened to be when Morrissey broke free from character voice and inserted his own thoughts and opinions – believe me, it was blatant when this happened in the story. I think my issue with this is that as a performer and therefore (in a sense) a public figure, Morrissey has a platform to vent and rant to his heart’s content. He needn’t have interrupted his own story with his personal agenda.
Music wise, Morrissey is a lyrical god; as a novelist Morrissey leaves a lot to be desired.
List of the Lost by Morrissey is available now.
I was really excited that Morrissey was releasing a book. I was excited for all the wrong reasons. I love The Smiths, I loved Morrissey’s autobiography, I love the myth of Morrissey. It hurts me to say this but Morrissey – the author of fiction – is awful. I don’t mean a little bit terrible, I mean this book – List of the Lost -brings awful to a whole new level.
I would love to be able to explain the plot of the story to you but unfortunately it got lost beneath the dirge of words used elsewhere. The narrative was so erratic I couldn’t find any understanding at all. The only parts that seemed to be clear happened to be when Morrissey broke free from character voice and inserted his own thoughts and opinions – believe me, it was blatant when this happened in the story. I think my issue with this is that as a performer and therefore (in a sense) a public figure, Morrissey has a platform to vent and rant to his heart’s content. He needn’t have interrupted his own story with his personal agenda.
Music wise, Morrissey is a lyrical god; as a novelist Morrissey leaves a lot to be desired.
List of the Lost by Morrissey is available now.
Gawd knows I love him, just not this. Too self indulgent and in need of an edit.
Honestly,this is one of the very worst books I have ever read.The characters are so under-developed they were embryonic and each turn of the plot was more ludicrous than the last.Horribly weak and clearly a vanity project for Morrissey.I hope to never read the phrase 'womb-men'again,shudder.
dark
funny
slow-paced
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
What an absolute mess this was!
Even though I love Morrissey's lyrics, I didn't have very high hopes for List of the Lost. I've had this sitting in my shelf for a few years now, picking it up every now and then and losing interest after half a page. Still, when I finally decided to actually read it, I thought, sure, stars of track and field, that might be interesting. While it sets out to be a novel about four college athletes, it is, in my opinion, not a novel about four college athletes, but a novel about... Morrissey.
At times I had to wonder why he even bothered writing a novel about these specific characters, since he seemed to be so desperate to write about anything besides them or what they were going through. While the cast of characters was never diverse to begin with, I could barely tell these people apart. There was nothing distinct about any of them. They all acted the same way and spoke with the same arrogance, their voices all muddling together to be one hateful voice that, in style, resembled a crossover between a tragic Shakespearean monologue and an angry Facebook rant written by someone who's, like, really good at Scrabble but for some reason permanently pissed.
This novel was riddled with (what I consider to be) faults and mistakes I would expect from someone who is a beginner in writing fiction. For example, the text keeps jumping from past tense to present tense and back, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. I never knew where the events took place, and so the story felt as if it were floating around in thin air. After finishing the book I still have no idea who was telling the story and why exactly it needed to be told. There was no consistency in the voice telling the story, either, as it seemed to shift into whatever the writer had felt like at that exact moment, making the whole reading experience utterly confusing. Not in an enjoyable way.
List of The Lost is pompous, irritating, dense, rambly, angry, and, at times, sexist.
The story itself is a sequence of sad and shocking things that all just happen to happen within a very short period of time, almost as if someone is simply throwing obstacles at these characters. In the second half begins the name-dropping of politicians and major events from the 1970s, mainly in dialogue, which ended up feeling simply like a clumsy excuse to sneak in yet another reminder that Morrissey's hatred for Margaret Thatcher is the only thing in life we can truly trust. Throughout all of this, we, the readers, are supposed to believe the events that take place shake the protagonists to their very cores, yet none of it felt believable whatsoever, as no one has to face the long term consequences for any of their actions. I found it virtually impossible to muster up the energy to be interested in these two dimensional characters that I knew less than a half a page worth of information about.
While some of this could have been saved if it hadn't all been written in such an arrogant tone, I think one can't write something this over-the-top and not be able to laugh about it. Now it just reads as pretentious. The sensitivity I love so much about Morrissey's lyrics was completely missing from this novel.
Even though I love Morrissey's lyrics, I didn't have very high hopes for List of the Lost. I've had this sitting in my shelf for a few years now, picking it up every now and then and losing interest after half a page. Still, when I finally decided to actually read it, I thought, sure, stars of track and field, that might be interesting. While it sets out to be a novel about four college athletes, it is, in my opinion, not a novel about four college athletes, but a novel about... Morrissey.
At times I had to wonder why he even bothered writing a novel about these specific characters, since he seemed to be so desperate to write about anything besides them or what they were going through. While the cast of characters was never diverse to begin with, I could barely tell these people apart. There was nothing distinct about any of them. They all acted the same way and spoke with the same arrogance, their voices all muddling together to be one hateful voice that, in style, resembled a crossover between a tragic Shakespearean monologue and an angry Facebook rant written by someone who's, like, really good at Scrabble but for some reason permanently pissed.
This novel was riddled with (what I consider to be) faults and mistakes I would expect from someone who is a beginner in writing fiction. For example, the text keeps jumping from past tense to present tense and back, with seemingly no rhyme or reason. I never knew where the events took place, and so the story felt as if it were floating around in thin air. After finishing the book I still have no idea who was telling the story and why exactly it needed to be told. There was no consistency in the voice telling the story, either, as it seemed to shift into whatever the writer had felt like at that exact moment, making the whole reading experience utterly confusing. Not in an enjoyable way.
List of The Lost is pompous, irritating, dense, rambly, angry, and, at times, sexist.
The story itself is a sequence of sad and shocking things that all just happen to happen within a very short period of time, almost as if someone is simply throwing obstacles at these characters. In the second half begins the name-dropping of politicians and major events from the 1970s, mainly in dialogue, which ended up feeling simply like a clumsy excuse to sneak in yet another reminder that Morrissey's hatred for Margaret Thatcher is the only thing in life we can truly trust. Throughout all of this, we, the readers, are supposed to believe the events that take place shake the protagonists to their very cores, yet none of it felt believable whatsoever, as no one has to face the long term consequences for any of their actions. I found it virtually impossible to muster up the energy to be interested in these two dimensional characters that I knew less than a half a page worth of information about.
While some of this could have been saved if it hadn't all been written in such an arrogant tone, I think one can't write something this over-the-top and not be able to laugh about it. Now it just reads as pretentious. The sensitivity I love so much about Morrissey's lyrics was completely missing from this novel.
I want to begin this by stating, clearly, that I am a huge Smiths and Morrissey fan (well, as far as his music goes. Sometimes we disagree on politics and actual general life experience; but his lyrics are often faultless.) Some of his lyrics are among my all-time favourites and I loved most of his autobiography- despite the age difference, there were some things I recognised as part of my own northern, working class upbringing.
I read the reviews of List of the Lost. I wondered whether it would be as bad as the critics were saying. Were they just slating him because he was moving from music to writing? Because he’d had the arrogance to demand the first book be published as a Penguin Classic? Or because he’s been outspoken in his criticism of… well, just about everyone? I thought I’d put all this aside and approach it as a fan but also as someone who’s fairly well-read. I’ve read excellent books, good books and terrible books and it’s rare for me to give up on a book. I reserved it from the library. A few days later, I picked the book up, full of hope and excitement.
I settled down, big mug of tea and a child-free afternoon ahead of me. I began reading.
I gave up seventeen pages later. Life is too short for this novel. What follows is painful for me to type, dear reader, but I must.
The lyricism that flows in Morrissey’s songs does not translate well to fiction; it just sounds clunky and pretentious. The opening is also incredibly boring. But, worse than that, is that it seems the publisher decided for some reason to forgo hiring a decent editor for this. Is it because Moz is a force to be reckoned with? Because they knew that people would buy this in their droves, regardless of quality? (I suspect the latter, but who knows?) The novel is the ultimate vanity project, it seems.
If you’ve managed to read the novel, I salute you. If you read it and enjoyed- not just as a mega fan, but because you liked the style and the story- I applaud you and want to know what else you enjoy reading.
In the end, I agreed with the critics and it pained me. I bet Morrissey has another book out before long; after all, no publicity is bad publicity- and this novel has probably produced ten times its length in comment (and yep, I’m aware of what I’m doing!) But next time, Mr Morrissey, Penguin, PLEASE get an editor in.
I read the reviews of List of the Lost. I wondered whether it would be as bad as the critics were saying. Were they just slating him because he was moving from music to writing? Because he’d had the arrogance to demand the first book be published as a Penguin Classic? Or because he’s been outspoken in his criticism of… well, just about everyone? I thought I’d put all this aside and approach it as a fan but also as someone who’s fairly well-read. I’ve read excellent books, good books and terrible books and it’s rare for me to give up on a book. I reserved it from the library. A few days later, I picked the book up, full of hope and excitement.
I settled down, big mug of tea and a child-free afternoon ahead of me. I began reading.
I gave up seventeen pages later. Life is too short for this novel. What follows is painful for me to type, dear reader, but I must.
The lyricism that flows in Morrissey’s songs does not translate well to fiction; it just sounds clunky and pretentious. The opening is also incredibly boring. But, worse than that, is that it seems the publisher decided for some reason to forgo hiring a decent editor for this. Is it because Moz is a force to be reckoned with? Because they knew that people would buy this in their droves, regardless of quality? (I suspect the latter, but who knows?) The novel is the ultimate vanity project, it seems.
If you’ve managed to read the novel, I salute you. If you read it and enjoyed- not just as a mega fan, but because you liked the style and the story- I applaud you and want to know what else you enjoy reading.
In the end, I agreed with the critics and it pained me. I bet Morrissey has another book out before long; after all, no publicity is bad publicity- and this novel has probably produced ten times its length in comment (and yep, I’m aware of what I’m doing!) But next time, Mr Morrissey, Penguin, PLEASE get an editor in.