A review by jonfaith
Laura Warholic: Or, the Sexual Intellectual by Alexander Theroux

3.0

Perhaps the lingering focus of Laura Warholic resonated within my own past. Perhaps there are events and people I'd prefer not to remember. Whatever the extent of my own baggage, this is not a great novel. The overstuffed tome sorely lacks editing. The aspects relating to Vietnam and contemporary musical subcultures are absolutely contrived. The jungles of Southeast Asia are a flimsy device for lost love. The pulsating clubs of present day Boston are but teratologies allowing Theroux to sneer. These nocturnal visions didn't appear as bad as Franzen gushing over Bright Eyes in Freedom, but the authorial intent felt all wrong. Maybe I'm just growing old.

I just didn't care. The rants are epic but distracting. Laura's faults are Sissyphean. Herr Warholic is unctuous. I understand. Fifty references of foreshadowing anticipate the cross-country trip. This journey remains the soul of the book. Echoing Lolita, place names and local curiosity jostle in the American imagination. The novel's plot follows the lead of Miss Lonelyhearts and Otto Preminger's Laura and concludes gracelessly with an expected thud.