Adam Levin (1) (1976–)

This is a book I read. It was meant as research for the humorous short story collection I’m working on. Or meant, at least, for atmosphere. I don’t think I enjoyed it much. The characters were largely unlikeable and too boring to possess even the whiff of desire to push these sparse plots into some vestige of excitement or relevance or meaning. It wasn’t funny. Certainly not laugh-out-loud funny. Not one hilarious explosion. What few humorous moments there were caused little more than show more a crimp of the lips. I assume that’s what happened to my face. It felt that way, but I couldn’t see myself, so maybe I was just bracing for a sneeze. Not that it’s required of humorous fiction to make the reader slap his knee or the knee of the person next to him (pre-pandemic) or cause him to rubberneck at anyone within spying distance. (Spies to spot the laughing crazies.) No matter how dry or cerebral or absurd the story, if it’s truly funny, it should hit the solar plexus and tickle the buzzing spots while you’re gasping for breath. Steve Martin even worked fucking a cat into his standup routine. And that cat was apparently a great lay.

It was written well, though. There were some worthwhile ideas. I can’t say it was an absolute waste of time spent in isolation. There was an unintended consequence in picking it for research: 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦. Especially as humor. And humor’s subjective, obviously, as can be illustrated by the blurbs written about the book. Maybe the list I’d found it on was woefully misguided by including it as a hilarious read. Maybe I could’ve taken the stories at face value and seen the . . . no, I really didn’t like these people. I kind of just wanted them all to die. Die horribly funny deaths. In unpredictable ways. To laugh enough to possibly pat a stranger’s knee, making eye contact over flu masks, and fail at explaining what made me laugh so. show less

When... oh when will the Coen Brothers make a genius, epic, hilarious, scathing, masterpiece film adaptation of this? Probably never. The crazily under-appreciated A Serious Man will have to suffice.

In the mean time, I'll read this again some day. It's a genius, epic, hilarious, scathing, masterpiece. Goes on the short list of super-LONG, but super-entertaining (as well as thought provoking) books like Gravity's Rainbow, 1Q84, and Don Quixote.

Let's get it out of the way: are the comparisons to Infinite Jest valid? At points. This has the same deep focus on very specific locations/communities, occasionally the same breathless text, often the same exuberantly slow description of very fast events. It does not have the same sweep of locations, the same breadth of characters, or the asynchrony.

What it has instead is what makes it excellent - the sense of real community, the perfect framing (the book is told entirely chronologically, show more but from the future and with discovered documents from the past), the plot building rather than coming together in a bang near the end. It's simpler, and occasionally I felt like the editor could have cut a bit more of Gurion's thought processes, but those are minor aspects. The end is a delightful whoosh without compare (unlike IJ, this feels finished).

It's a delightful thing. show less

I know this much is true.

Or I think this. Suspect this. Realize this.

I know that this is the childhood of Infinite Jest before it was exposed to its titular component. I know that nothing is sacred, least of all childhood, which suffers on its sanctified pedestal. I know ideology and theology and coprology and the razors they stretch tight around the skin. I know how the blades slip into the throat in childhood, and how the ability to spit them at another screams itself out in adulthood. I show more know that ability, to harness your damage to your own purposes, to be the true determination of being an adult.

I know that if you act like a child, you will be treated as a child. I know that if you are a child, and act like an adult, you will be disregarded as a child. I know that if you are a child, you will be hit as an adult. I know that if you are a child, you will be molested as an adult. I know that if you are a child, you will be beaten as an adult. I know that if you are a child, you will be raped as an adult. I know that if you are a child, you will be blamed for the actions of the father as an adult, you will be blamed for the beliefs of your mother as an adult, and you will be condemned for your skin and your creed and your being. As an adult.

I know that if you are a child, and act like an adult, you will be feared beyond belief.

I know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I know that the road to hell is the path of least resistance. I know that the road to life is the path of most conviction, the path of least analysis, the path of tropes and logos and prejudices shortchanged into social slogans that lubricate your lifestyle and damage everything in its wake.

I know that WE DAMAGE WE is tennis.

I know that life is beautiful and love is beautiful. I know that a sound mind in a sound body is beautiful. I know that knowledge is beautiful, and that conviction is beautiful, and that reasoning is beautiful. I know that appreciation of and willingness towards these qualities is beautiful.

I know that misguided praise of all this is as equally damaging as condemnation.

I know that a child is not empty. I know that an adult is not full. I know that no one can truly say where one ends and the other begins, and anyone who uses age as reasoning confuses the length of life experience with humanity. Anyone who uses cooperation with a ideological system, which grinds and grinds and grinds, as reasoning confuses mirroring the crowd with humanity. Anyone who uses might as reasoning does not know humanity. In other words, fuck them. They know nothing.

I know that we try, and we try, and we try. I know that we bleed, I know that we fall, I know that we suffer. I know that we are objectified. I know that we objectify. I know that we make others suffer, we make others fall, we make others bleed. I know that we try, and we try, and we try.

I do not know the ending. No one does. Perhaps it will all be for something. Perhaps not. Does it matter, truly? Does closure really matter that much to you?

Who am I kidding. Of course it does. We would not be having this conversation otherwise. show less