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A review by tashberbank
List of the Lost by Morrissey
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.