Following my excitement yesterday that was generated by Neil Gaman’s Matrix short story, I really should try to find more time to read fictional stuff, and these sort of self-contained short stories are an ideal way of exploring a whole range of themes, images, and styles. It’s a shame I’m just so lazy when it comes to getting round to it.
I’ve only just finished Chuck Palahniuk’s Lullaby, which I last mentioned here but actually started reading in January. A brilliant book, written in his trademark vividly fluid style, and one that, along with the rest of his works that I’ve already read, would be a pleasure to re-read again, despite knowing the outcome, just because the words are so well put together (unlike this sentence).
His stuff is art. It’s poetry. Often bleak. Sometimes funny. It has the power to make you reconsider the way that you think, the way that you are. As the narrator concluded at the end of Fight Club, “We just are, and what happens just happens”.
The paperback of his new book Diary is on its way, which is way up there with William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition on the Starbuck excitometer, so I’m just going to have to get these old google-eyes retrained.