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3.66 AVERAGE
3.66 AVERAGE
funny
reflective
fast-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
No
adventurous
challenging
funny
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Much of the satire was over my head, since I was never in academia during the desonstructionist/literary theory era. I'm sure if you're familiar with all that, you'll find the book hilarious.
Well, BlackOxford gave the perfect review so go look that one up.
Meanwhile, using a baby to deliver the goods is also very funny: “I was lying in my crib, reading Daisy Miller…”
This author always manages to challenge and surprise and delight while hitting big themes studded with what, after reading quite a few of his books, feels like bits of personal revelation.
Full of his trademark wordplay.
Meanwhile, using a baby to deliver the goods is also very funny: “I was lying in my crib, reading Daisy Miller…”
This author always manages to challenge and surprise and delight while hitting big themes studded with what, after reading quite a few of his books, feels like bits of personal revelation.
Full of his trademark wordplay.
challenging
funny
fast-paced
I probably wasn't smart enough for this book. The main story was good, but I didn't get the rest of it.
Pretentious drivel disguised as intellectual prowess: meet the protagonist—a loathsome infant with the uncanny ability to read and write, whose only talent is spewing contempt for his parents. This little monster drenches us in a constant stream of namedropping and pseudo-philosophical musings that fail to be either insightful or engaging.
For anyone who has engaged seriously with contemporary theory, criticism, or philosophy, Everett’s bizarre urge to flaunt his "philosophical" chops by endlessly quoting and satirizing renowned thinkers will be infuriating. He manages to make the very concept of Thought excruciatingly dull. His obsession with racial identity is force-fed to the reader with a relentless, distinctly American heavy-handedness.
I began this book with full attention, only to quickly realize that its directionless ramblings were a dead end. I resorted to skimming through the tedious faux-philosophical passages, flipping pages faster and faster until I ultimately abandoned the book altogether.
It must have taken Everett months to piece together this monstrosity. This was my first attempt at his work after hearing him on the radio, but if I ever venture into another one of his books, he’ll need to work miracles to redeem the abysmal experience of this one. It’s a trainwreck. He wasted his time writing it; don’t waste yours reading it.
For anyone who has engaged seriously with contemporary theory, criticism, or philosophy, Everett’s bizarre urge to flaunt his "philosophical" chops by endlessly quoting and satirizing renowned thinkers will be infuriating. He manages to make the very concept of Thought excruciatingly dull. His obsession with racial identity is force-fed to the reader with a relentless, distinctly American heavy-handedness.
I began this book with full attention, only to quickly realize that its directionless ramblings were a dead end. I resorted to skimming through the tedious faux-philosophical passages, flipping pages faster and faster until I ultimately abandoned the book altogether.
It must have taken Everett months to piece together this monstrosity. This was my first attempt at his work after hearing him on the radio, but if I ever venture into another one of his books, he’ll need to work miracles to redeem the abysmal experience of this one. It’s a trainwreck. He wasted his time writing it; don’t waste yours reading it.
adventurous
challenging
lighthearted
fast-paced
A very odd, but interesting story for the most part (spoiler, the ending is jumbled and quick). A super-genius baby is coveted by many for a variety of reason. Chaos results.
Here's the thing. The first book by Percival Everett I read was [b:The Trees|56269278|The Trees|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1610060654l/56269278._SX50_.jpg|87659813] which featured a black-clad troupe of revenge seekers. I found that book very interesting for many reasons, but one of the minor ones was that I'd just been reading Thomas Pynchon's [b:The Crying of Lot 49|2794|The Crying of Lot 49|Thomas Pynchon|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1657594162l/2794._SY75_.jpg|1477756] which also featured a black-clad troupe of revenge seekers. But I didn't for a moment think that Everett had been inspired by Pynchon's book when he created his revenge seekers, because the two books are really different. Anyway, I read a couple more Everett books and got eventually to [b:Glyph|355818|Glyph|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1331430543l/355818._SY75_.jpg|1270378], where, what do you know, I found a reference to Pynchon's book! I smiled the smile I keep specially for book coincidences. Truth to tell, I get a lot of use out of that smile!
I smiled a lot in any case while I was reading Glyph. It may not be the funniest Everett I've read—certainly not laugh-out-loud funny as in the snappy-dialogue way of The Trees, or the ridiculous-dilemma-of-the-protagonist way of both [b:Erasure|355862|Erasure|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1441554290l/355862._SX50_.jpg|345986] and [b:I Am Not Sidney Poitier|6080748|I Am Not Sidney Poitier|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1438311375l/6080748._SY75_.jpg|6257449], or the low-key way of [b:Telephone|51541232|Telephone|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1573000040l/51541232._SX50_SY75_.jpg|73380945], or the flash-in-the-bedpan way of [b:Percival Everett by Virgil Russell|15792900|Percival Everett by Virgil Russell|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1361640295l/15792900._SX50_.jpg|21514852].
No, Glyph is quietly funny, as if the text and the fun belong in different spaces and can't interact with each other. There are two distinct spaces in this book in a way. There's the space where a bunch of ridiculous characters act out a ridiculous plot (which includes a monkey called Ronald who can sign, and an author called Roland, famous for writing about the signification of signs), and there's the space where the main character, Ralph, silently watches all the carry-on. And the reason Ralph is silent is that he's a baby and he can't speak (though he can write), and so he's a bit like the reader, watching and commenting and chuckling quietly at the antics that happen in his line of vision.
And Ralph has another thing in common with the reader, he can read. And not children's books but anything and everything that gets left in his crib (including Barthes), and that's how Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 came to be mentioned.
So what did Ralph think of Lot 49, you might wonder?
Alas, it put him to sleep.
I smiled a lot in any case while I was reading Glyph. It may not be the funniest Everett I've read—certainly not laugh-out-loud funny as in the snappy-dialogue way of The Trees, or the ridiculous-dilemma-of-the-protagonist way of both [b:Erasure|355862|Erasure|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1441554290l/355862._SX50_.jpg|345986] and [b:I Am Not Sidney Poitier|6080748|I Am Not Sidney Poitier|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1438311375l/6080748._SY75_.jpg|6257449], or the low-key way of [b:Telephone|51541232|Telephone|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1573000040l/51541232._SX50_SY75_.jpg|73380945], or the flash-in-the-bedpan way of [b:Percival Everett by Virgil Russell|15792900|Percival Everett by Virgil Russell|Percival Everett|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1361640295l/15792900._SX50_.jpg|21514852].
No, Glyph is quietly funny, as if the text and the fun belong in different spaces and can't interact with each other. There are two distinct spaces in this book in a way. There's the space where a bunch of ridiculous characters act out a ridiculous plot (which includes a monkey called Ronald who can sign, and an author called Roland, famous for writing about the signification of signs), and there's the space where the main character, Ralph, silently watches all the carry-on. And the reason Ralph is silent is that he's a baby and he can't speak (though he can write), and so he's a bit like the reader, watching and commenting and chuckling quietly at the antics that happen in his line of vision.
And Ralph has another thing in common with the reader, he can read. And not children's books but anything and everything that gets left in his crib (including Barthes), and that's how Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49 came to be mentioned.
So what did Ralph think of Lot 49, you might wonder?
Alas, it put him to sleep.