About book A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius (2001)
One of my least favorite books of all time. I think it's a lot of b.s., to be honest. I cringed with frustration as I turned every page, and I only wanted to finish it so that I could say I found nothing redeeming. Oh sure, he was flashy and could draw a cheap laugh, but it was like admiration for bubbles: it went nowhere and said nothing. Henry James this is not (I don't love HJ, but I know talent when I see it and this is self-examination for voyeuristic purposes). I was disgusted with the title when I first heard of it; though I can see the attempt at self-ridicule, eh, nope, he's pretty satisfied with himself. I then heard so much lovely stuff about it, which worries me now in retrospect, but I tried it with an open mind: Nope Buddy!Why even go into the hundred reasons why it sucks, since the author is such a vapid creature full of style and lacking substance - the book doesn't really merit an intellectual attack. Really, I think it's every single thing that is wrong with certain aspects of modern literature. Foster Wallace and Eggers can suck my metaphorical dick, since they seem to exist for nothing else but their own pretension. Way to reveal modern angst boys, sorry that people a lot smarter did it better a hundred years ago, and said something relevant for people who weren't self-absorbed fops. I look forward to a future world cataclysm in which this book can be lost, and something worthwhile take its place in the literary canon. (Also, I apologize to all the people who really sincerely love this book. I know I like some things that can be deemed pretty trivial. And who knows, maybe the author is a nice enough guy. I just, I gotta say it, I really can't stand this book, and wish there were better books around to take away some of its appeal. Art for the ego just doesn't seem enough).*since i've written my original review i've gotten lots of angry messages. first off, my respect for a book does not increase when its fans e-mail me to tell me Just How Wrong I Am for Not Loving it to Death. i've been told what a hipster i am for disliking it (?), and how much i must love the sitcom 'frazier'. again: ? Whoa. This review was just my opinion. I read this book seven years ago, when i was 18 years old. I did not like it. It is not what I would describe as good literature. I thought the author was playing tricks with language, but unlike a lot of other authors, he was doing it to be showy instead of pursuing where words can go and the impact they can have. I did think they were bubbles, and bubbles may be nice, bubbles can be fun, but bubbles don't last. I just don't think it warrants the place in literature it currently seems to. If you have a problem with this review not being specific enough (as I've been told), let me know and i'll be happy to write you an eight page paper telling you why it's ridiculous for thinking a goodreads review should be the end-all of insights into a book.**For the record, I think there's nothing "Cool Kid" about this review. Define 'Cool.' Pointless exercise. I love Justin Timberlake. I just don't think this was a great book like Timberlake is an irresistible performer.My memories of the book have grown hazy, and I did write my first review while living in New Orleans. I think I slammed down a drink at Igors at 3 am while waving Flannery or Walker or Eudora in the air and swore that Franzen and Eggers were my metaphysical enemies and one day I would read Wittgenstein deeply enough to make seemingly-profound arguments about nonsense culture-consumers like "Stop making literature a habit of stylistic consumption and read something and decide if it's true." I remain too lazy, but still, I think we should read literature with an idea of the Good, and how to pursue it. My always-reforming vision has been consistent about thinking of this not as a charming memoir but as a lazy memoir without real love or value. I wish I could see what so many think they do, but it remains mirror-playing to me.. Maybe most of this is late-night fighting-Tara b.s., but I still think my absurd perspective is still more concerned about what is good and lovely and true than the steady narcissism of AHWOSG.
Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave. What can I say? I can sort of remember picking up this book in a bookstore somewhere and reading the first few pages… now, not the first few pages of the story, but I’m talking about the copyright page. Freaking Dave Eggers is writing his novel starting with the copyright page? Wild man, wild man! So, I read it. I liked it. It was this nonstop stream of consciousness kind of thing, which I found a bit comforting, cause that’s how I think. I mean, of course that’s how I think, cause my mind will just sometimes ramble on and on and on about nothing in particular. It could be about donuts that my mind is thinking about, it could be about women. Maybe it’s about basketball. I miss Michael Jordan. 1992 was the year they first made the Dream Team for the U.S. Basketball Olympic team. Do you remember all 12 members? I do. Swear to God I’m not looking this up: Magic Johnson, Larry Bird, Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen, John Stockton, Karl Malone, Charles Barkley, David Robinson, Clyde Drexler, Chris Mullins, Patrick Ewing, and the one college player Duke’s very own Christian Lattner (I don’t know how to spell his name… okay, I looked it up- it’s Laettner) And really what ever happened to that guy? How did he get on the dream team? One shot? He hit the winning shot in an NCAA basketball tournament. That’s it. That’s all he ever did. Shaq O’neill was waiting in the wings. Hell Isaiah Thomas could have been that last player, but apparently Michael Jordan didn’t want Isaiah on the team. Who knows if that rumor is true? Certainly not me. Anyway, a friend of mine read the book and she didn’t like it so much. Which almost made me question how I felt about the book, but then I thought, “No, stay with your belief system man! Don’t let someone else’s opinion sway you.” But that did get me to thinking if there were books that men preferred over women, and vice versa. I don’t mean sexist misogynistic type books, but I’m talking the writing style specifically. Is there a cadence to writing that men prefer? Is there a cadence that women prefer? Maybe someone should write a thesis about that. I know it’s not going to be me. I didn’t major in psychology, though looking back I wish I would have because there were so many cute girls in the psychology department. In conclusion, I enjoyed this book.
Do You like book A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius (2001)?
i had seen dave eggers on dinner for five before i read this book and i liked him: he seemed really smart and sincere about the charity work he was doing. my friends really liked his first book, this book, and i decided to read it even after i had read his story in the mcsweeney anthology mammoth tales, and was stultified by it. a pseudo memoir would be different, i reasoned, and i was predisposed to like him. probably for the first thirty pages i was very engaged but gradually i realized that i hated his writing voice. yes, he was clever, and smart. but i wanted to punch him in the face too. i finished the book disappointed that i didn't like it but also understanding it was unlikely i would ever read a book of his again. eggers, franzen, dfw, none have been for me. since i have only read brief interviews with hideous men by wallace, some argue that i could change my mind. and maybe i'm just not in the right place in my life to appreciate these voices, but i've hated margaret atwood for a long time, and it's not because i think she's a talentless hack. it's because i just don't like her writing voice, and i am pretty sure the same is true with regard to the author of this work.
—Maureen
Before I picked up this book I had heard endless tales of how wonderfully smart and funny this book was, how terrific the writing was and how the originality would slap me in the face like a cool wind on a summer's day. They were wrong. I hated this book like The Cure hates happiness. I understand writer's have their own style, and that is what, in and of itself, separates them from all the others. But, seriously, we learn paragraph breaks for a reason. It gives the mind's eye a break, a breather. Eggers, a rebel in his own mind, discards such mannerisms. Aside from that debilitating hindrance, the book is THE example for egotism gone awry. Now, before you start, yes, I am aware that a memoir book is, essentially, an ego stroke. But the good writers, they have the ability to make you forget that it's merely self-indulgence, sweep you up in their lives...in their story. Rather than want to beg the author in so many ways as to warrant that 500 feet order to invite you over, Eggers is the kind of guy you would actually go out of your way to avoid.
—Kelly
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. I was reading this book and around page 237 (or was it 327? fuck), I figured it out- he's talking to ME. He wrote this book for me. Dave Eggers looked into the future and saw that I would want to read a self-referential, self-satisfying memoir. He knew that I would be trying to figure stuff, being in my twenties and all, and while not dealing with the enormity of losing both parents and having to rear a young sibling, I would have my own shit to work through. He. fucking. knew. But why not just make it more obvious? Why not dedicate the book to me? Or send me a note, an email even:"Hey Karina- I know we've never met but I know that this book could really help you out. Love, Dave"Maybe "love" is too much."Sincerely, and wishing you the best, Dave" Ok, even a modest "Sincerely" would have been adequate. But I think I know why he didn't do that. He wanted to mess with me. WANTED to. He wanted me have that revelation on my own. I would thank him, but honestly, I didn't like the book. No, I didn't HATE the book. If I had HATED the book, I would have given it one star, right? But for all the hype, it really was very frustrating. I even started skimming by the end. Hey, maybe you've even started skimming this review. That's ok. I understand. I just didn't need to hear any more of his selfish, whining, complaining, navel-gazing, cutseyness sometimes. It was too much. And by the end I was really kinda hating him. Which I think is something he would have been ok with, expecting even. It was too cute, too overdone, needed to be edited, cut in half. The stuff about his mother in the beginning was beautiful, because it felt sincere. ok, maybe that is his schtick- an insincere memoir, hiding behind a supposed stance of openness and sharing. well, screw that. That isn't why I read that kind of book. So bugger off Eggers and don't write any more books for me, ok?
—Karina
