The most excessive use of unnecessary periods I've maybe ever seen. Revolting and engaging and probably about 40% credible, this created a new genre in my head called "Death Row Porn". I've never considered myself a prude, but I draw the line way before vomiting on some biker's junk while he screws a hole in a wood floor lubricated with my piss. And this isn't even the worst of it. Lydia Lunch confesses early on to long-term sexual abuse by her father, a culmination of awful experiences which partially contributed to her self-identifying as a sociopathic nymphomaniac obsessed with terror-based sexuality, serial killers, prostitution, and so much statutory rape that I'm convinced roughly 3% of New York City's male Gen-X-ers lost their virginity to her in the >160 pages of this memoir. It shouldn't need to be said that men guilty of the same sorts of behavior documented here in first person by this loud, blunt, dangerous, strange woman often get a pat on the back for their "escapades", whereas women who are even sexually actualized and/or experienced are crowned with the impetuous title of sexy/whore. Unfortunately, the world we live in still hasn't caught up in that regard, and so I understand why a person with this abrasive of a personality and this voracious an appetite for savagery feels like shrilly and proudly pronouncing herself a fuckaholic man-eater is doing a service to feminist thought. At the same time, she does come off as not a little bit nihilistic, and her obsession with sexual violence whether as victim or victimizer would be off-putting coming from the mouth of anyone, regardless of gender. Further, her attempts at being brassy and genuine read as forced with a fair amount of regularity, which is funny, really. You can smell a poet's spirit here, and in the few moments of this book where scat-play isn't going on and strangers aren't being threatened at knife-point, Lunch manages some illuminating transcendence, both surmounting and embracing a morphed sexuality, taking it and making it her own while still maintaining at least a shred of self-doubt about her general sanity. Which she should, because whew, this chick is hands-down insane. Intriguing artist because/though.Anyway, you can listen to my lukewarm reaction and maybe read the book, or you can trust Thurston Moore's (an individual I respect, but not indiscriminately) raaaaaave slam-poem style non-review at the tail end of this volume and plant kisses of adoration all over it and carry it everywhere and live your life by it until you die of exposure in some trash-covered big city alleyway because you don't have all the connections and back-up plans of someone who is underground-famous. It's your life, man, do your thing. Just wear a condom.
I saw Lydia Lunch do a reading at Quimby's. She employed the obnoxious reading style that is standard fare at coffee shop open-mics everywhere, the kind that drags out end-words like saxophones in slow jazz songs. I think the Beats are responsible for convincing people that this is an okay thing to do when reading aloud. Her supporters were numerous and rude, talking about how great she is while the far more interesting Joe Meno read an excerpt from his first novel. From the bits of conversation I couldn't tune out, they keep Ms. Lunch high up on a pedastal, probably among the rest of the literary luminaries that are canonized by know-nothing 19 year-olds that get their kicks by reading books that glorify slumming. Maybe it's a form of self-flagellation, preaching the brilliance of Bukowski, Kerouac, and their ilk (of which Lunch is one) while being too lazy to do anything of interest on their own. Why am I so bitter? Anyway, I grabbed this at the library, because I had to know if it is as bad as I thought it would be. It is.
Do You like book Paradoxia: A Predator's Diary (2007)?
Paradoxia will leave you with dirt under your fingernails and filthy film over your eyes. But if this book disgusted and horrified you by the third chapter and you pushed yourself to read on and finish the book, well, who is the disturbed one here? This book intends to make you feel these things. It's supposed to turn your stomach. Lydia wants to bring out emotions you never knew were there. She wants to see if you have the guts to finish this atrocity. And you did. So she wins. She got you. Sucker. You got caught in her web for a short time and she had her way with you. She hustles her ass off in this book and then hustles you, the reader because you couldn't help yourself but to read on. This book is a masterpiece in my eyes. Not a masterpiece in general but for what it is and what it's supposed to do. It succeeds. Of course it is embellished but she dares you, forces you to think about things you never imagined. Lydia Lunch says and does whatever the hell she wants. She doesn't let her damage control her, she takes full advantage of it. These are the things that make her a relevant artist. She is nobody's puppet. In today's world, every artist is somebody's puppet. And besides, this book is hilarious.
—Casey Kiser
ΕΕ τι να πω΄τέλειο Review.. απολυτως κατατοπιστικό , ενώ στον cornblauth κάπως μου τα θαλάσσωσες..Note: πόσο θα έλεγες ότι τιμάται το νέο CD της υπογεγραμένο κ αποτυπωμένο με τα χείλη της???
—Arax Miltiadous
There is always someone more fucked up than you, and Lydia Lunch was one of them.From my 1999 review: "Gritty...raw...very in-your-face stuff. Lydia Lunch has written a mindblowing chronicle of her life as a victimizer. Contrary to what others say, though, I do not believe that this book was written to encourage male abuse but rather to force others into realizing that male or female, being the victimizer is wrong. Lunch does a wonderful job of shocking the reader as her escapades become more and more extreme. And yet, she proves her point: that the lifestyle she led was not healthy, and that it is possible to pull oneself out of the abyss. "
—Jeanne
