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erat 's review for:
I Am No One
by Patrick Flanery
From Merriam-Webster:
bloviate (verb, ˈblō-vē-ˌāt): to speak or write verbosely and windily.
Yep, that sums it up. Other people that reviewed this book opined that about 50 pages could have been dropped without affecting the story. I think that's being generous. I'm going to up that to 100 pages. Holy wowza.
This is one of the "windiest" books I've read in a very long time. The only book that I can compare it to is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a book that I currently detest for its self-indulgence and sense of self-importance. Like Mr. Pirsig, the main character in this book swims inside his own head, but instead of endless pontifications on quality, the main character bloviates about his faux-elite Britishness (at least as British as an American expat can be) and his self-congratulatory prowess with the ladies and basically makes himself into a caricature of every American that watched Downton Abbey and decided to fetishize English society. Oh, and he's being tracked in every possible way by some mysterious entity (NSA? CIA? Who?).
This book feels like it's the fantasy of every intellectual that thinks his/her thoughts are so powerful or disruptive or dangerous that they warrant a conspiracy to take them down. Pick any neo-activist, or politician, or even a garden variety self-loving asshole, plop the person down as the main character in this book, and nothing will change. People that luxuriate inside their own brains and convince themselves that they're enlightened must fantasize over stuff like this. I don't know where they get their sense of self-importance, but I'd love to find a way to convey to them that they just aren't that important.
Fact: Unless you're a truly rare individual, nobody is conspiring against you because nobody cares about what you think quite as thoroughly and adoringly as you do. In the grand scheme of pretty much everything we're all just motes of dust, and honestly, there's nothing wrong with that. You have a sphere of influence that extends a bit past your wingspan but that's where it begins to peter out. Internalize that and deal.
People that claim to be victims of conspiracies...is that hubris? arrogance? narcissism? over-compensation for feelings of inferiority? Don't know, don't care. I don't like associating with people like that in real life, and I don't care to read about them either. And yeah, there actually was a conspiracy against the main character, but that didn't make the story any less abrasive.
I guess I wasn't thrilled with this book. I'm sure the author is an awesome person, and at least some of the story warranted my attention (hence the two stars), but I was irritated through most of the book and that's not cool. I'm sure it's me, not him. I can't love 'em all, right? Right.
I received this book as a Goodreads Giveaway in exchange for an honest review. I honestly think I revealed more than enough honesty in my review above so I'll refrain from adding a zinger down here.
bloviate (verb, ˈblō-vē-ˌāt): to speak or write verbosely and windily.
Yep, that sums it up. Other people that reviewed this book opined that about 50 pages could have been dropped without affecting the story. I think that's being generous. I'm going to up that to 100 pages. Holy wowza.
This is one of the "windiest" books I've read in a very long time. The only book that I can compare it to is Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a book that I currently detest for its self-indulgence and sense of self-importance. Like Mr. Pirsig, the main character in this book swims inside his own head, but instead of endless pontifications on quality, the main character bloviates about his faux-elite Britishness (at least as British as an American expat can be) and his self-congratulatory prowess with the ladies and basically makes himself into a caricature of every American that watched Downton Abbey and decided to fetishize English society. Oh, and he's being tracked in every possible way by some mysterious entity (NSA? CIA? Who?).
This book feels like it's the fantasy of every intellectual that thinks his/her thoughts are so powerful or disruptive or dangerous that they warrant a conspiracy to take them down. Pick any neo-activist, or politician, or even a garden variety self-loving asshole, plop the person down as the main character in this book, and nothing will change. People that luxuriate inside their own brains and convince themselves that they're enlightened must fantasize over stuff like this. I don't know where they get their sense of self-importance, but I'd love to find a way to convey to them that they just aren't that important.
Fact: Unless you're a truly rare individual, nobody is conspiring against you because nobody cares about what you think quite as thoroughly and adoringly as you do. In the grand scheme of pretty much everything we're all just motes of dust, and honestly, there's nothing wrong with that. You have a sphere of influence that extends a bit past your wingspan but that's where it begins to peter out. Internalize that and deal.
People that claim to be victims of conspiracies...is that hubris? arrogance? narcissism? over-compensation for feelings of inferiority? Don't know, don't care. I don't like associating with people like that in real life, and I don't care to read about them either. And yeah, there actually was a conspiracy against the main character, but that didn't make the story any less abrasive.
I guess I wasn't thrilled with this book. I'm sure the author is an awesome person, and at least some of the story warranted my attention (hence the two stars), but I was irritated through most of the book and that's not cool. I'm sure it's me, not him. I can't love 'em all, right? Right.
I received this book as a Goodreads Giveaway in exchange for an honest review. I honestly think I revealed more than enough honesty in my review above so I'll refrain from adding a zinger down here.