batbones's review
3.0
'We cradle each wish in preparation of it being fulfilled, and our feelings might be so bullishly strong that we cannot imagine the object of our lust being unimpressed by the sheer voltage and force of our needs (since it obviously impresses us). But life tends to be a cold-storage schlep of mediocrity at best, and amongst the snowed-under years our theories of love and lust are almost never practiced with the vim and vigor, so brutally immovable from our stuck imaginations ... This makes the human being a pitiful creature eternally occupied with longing, longing, longing - yet animals at least (at most?), leap as large as life when ready to cloy in ecstasy.'
Good lyricists do not always make good poets, although good poems can be massaged into fine songs (see: Emilie Autumn's'O Mistress Mine'). Good poets do not always make good novelists, or playwrights, and vice versa. In the same way, good lyricists may not make good novelists. A good line, perfect for a song, does not promise an eloquent paragraph, and amid incomprehensible/ vapid/unstylish dross, a well-timed, well-paced phrase will shine like a bit of gold in the mud. This may vaguely have something to do with the differences between literary forms - their provisions, the effects they are capable of eliciting, and their demands. How might the artist modify his manner to suit the shape of his new art?
Melissa Katsoulis (writing in The Times) was toocharitable forgiving in describing this as 'a Joycean freedom to its playfulness', 'deliberately eccentric [writing] in the high modernist style'. Morrissey as a novelist has an obsession with alliteration and onomatopoeia that, although they may be deliberate constructions, it is unclear to what end/ends are they employed when their manic over-usage makes them purposeless and sometimes frankly rather silly. There is no deliberate aspiration of complex patterning and redeeming intensity of the English language that the modernists set out to do or achieved. For sure, it is entirely a style of his own, and deliberately eccentric all right, but to what end and for what purpose?
The prose seems written by an over-hasty hand, lacking the undercurrents of careful subtlety and directed intensity of the writers it might have sought to emulate or declare a debt to. Loving words and phrases to the point of invention and yet loving them too much perhaps to appreciate the effect of having them in a sentence, or their intended place in a passage. A novella that has not, to use the writer's own phrase, been 'licked into shape'. There is a tang of fin-de-siecle exquisiteness, but it doesn't achieve the same directed lyrical intensity, or Decadence's languid 'art-is-all' sensuality. At its best it glimmers with promise but is weighed down by the worst of it. It is dogged by a thoughtlessness that cries out for an editor who might have whipped this into form, pruned it, demanded the writer work harder to carve a finer, clearer shape from his material. The prose's diction is frequently its worst enemy, causing cultivated lines to sputter out or backfire simply because of poor word choice.
The novel is a generous, sympathetic form, not a sociopolitical tract. It does badly when beaten into one. A weakness of the novelist (and reflectively, the lyricist as well, sometimes) to harangue instead of describe, to repeat what is true to him in the most forceful of terms instead of working it into the threads of the story, turns unorthodox proclamations into the new orthodoxy. Opinions on politics, religion, and animal cruelty intrude upon the reading rhythm with the abruptness of encountering a newspaper cutting pasted on the page. Ironically, the novel is preachy, and its polemical force is no substitute for eloquence, or pith. Consequently it pooh-poohs and sweeps aside all ideas of traditional morality only to take its place as its own fire-and-brimstone sermon, its own bumper sticker. These pronouncements at their worst comes across as artless.
Yet the novel is more liked than unlikeable for the presence of quintessential Morrissey-isms that for this reader (who is a fan of his music) recall the mingling of sweetness and irony in his lyrics. He is at his best intertwining romance and death, detailing the slow decay of the human soul unwillingly yoked to an ageing body, or coercive social system ('Frankly Mr Shankly', 'Spent the Day in Bed'). At these instances the intertwining of prose rhythm and line and word could set something alight.
'The tongue ... breaks loose on the safety and secrecy of paper whilst suffering in its haste by assuring itself that the sheet shall shield all secrets because, after all, it is only here and now, between you and I, for no one else is reading this.'
'Here was a point of control whereby you are your own witness, and all that happens is made by you and does not need further clarification.'
'The reason why I love you the best is because I won't mind in the least if you see me at my worst.'
'you are looking at me with gunfire in your unendurably beautiful eyes, yet you and only you have saved me through these recent weeks.'
Good lyricists do not always make good poets, although good poems can be massaged into fine songs (see: Emilie Autumn's'O Mistress Mine'). Good poets do not always make good novelists, or playwrights, and vice versa. In the same way, good lyricists may not make good novelists. A good line, perfect for a song, does not promise an eloquent paragraph, and amid incomprehensible/ vapid/unstylish dross, a well-timed, well-paced phrase will shine like a bit of gold in the mud. This may vaguely have something to do with the differences between literary forms - their provisions, the effects they are capable of eliciting, and their demands. How might the artist modify his manner to suit the shape of his new art?
Melissa Katsoulis (writing in The Times) was too
The prose seems written by an over-hasty hand, lacking the undercurrents of careful subtlety and directed intensity of the writers it might have sought to emulate or declare a debt to. Loving words and phrases to the point of invention and yet loving them too much perhaps to appreciate the effect of having them in a sentence, or their intended place in a passage. A novella that has not, to use the writer's own phrase, been 'licked into shape'. There is a tang of fin-de-siecle exquisiteness, but it doesn't achieve the same directed lyrical intensity, or Decadence's languid 'art-is-all' sensuality. At its best it glimmers with promise but is weighed down by the worst of it. It is dogged by a thoughtlessness that cries out for an editor who might have whipped this into form, pruned it, demanded the writer work harder to carve a finer, clearer shape from his material. The prose's diction is frequently its worst enemy, causing cultivated lines to sputter out or backfire simply because of poor word choice.
The novel is a generous, sympathetic form, not a sociopolitical tract. It does badly when beaten into one. A weakness of the novelist (and reflectively, the lyricist as well, sometimes) to harangue instead of describe, to repeat what is true to him in the most forceful of terms instead of working it into the threads of the story, turns unorthodox proclamations into the new orthodoxy. Opinions on politics, religion, and animal cruelty intrude upon the reading rhythm with the abruptness of encountering a newspaper cutting pasted on the page. Ironically, the novel is preachy, and its polemical force is no substitute for eloquence, or pith. Consequently it pooh-poohs and sweeps aside all ideas of traditional morality only to take its place as its own fire-and-brimstone sermon, its own bumper sticker. These pronouncements at their worst comes across as artless.
Yet the novel is more liked than unlikeable for the presence of quintessential Morrissey-isms that for this reader (who is a fan of his music) recall the mingling of sweetness and irony in his lyrics. He is at his best intertwining romance and death, detailing the slow decay of the human soul unwillingly yoked to an ageing body, or coercive social system ('Frankly Mr Shankly', 'Spent the Day in Bed'). At these instances the intertwining of prose rhythm and line and word could set something alight.
'The tongue ... breaks loose on the safety and secrecy of paper whilst suffering in its haste by assuring itself that the sheet shall shield all secrets because, after all, it is only here and now, between you and I, for no one else is reading this.'
'Here was a point of control whereby you are your own witness, and all that happens is made by you and does not need further clarification.'
'The reason why I love you the best is because I won't mind in the least if you see me at my worst.'
'you are looking at me with gunfire in your unendurably beautiful eyes, yet you and only you have saved me through these recent weeks.'
daisyemmahughes's review
dark
emotional
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.25
a_violentfemme's review
2.0
I've been a big smiths/morrissey fan since my teens and after reading his autobiography (which I very much enjoyed) I was really looking forward to this novel. After list of the lost was published I read only bad things about it, but assumed it ever popular moz criticism.
After reading for myself I can sadly confirm that this novel is terrible! I found it a very difficult read and found myself frequently lost in paragraphs I had to reread. I am still not sure what it is even about other than as a tool for morrissey to rant about his favourite topics: politics (and thatcher specifically), factory farming, veganism, the cruelty of the human race and sex. I found the narrative very inconsistent and always returns to morrissey's much too obvious voice on these subjects with little to no point to the characters story line.
All in all it reads as a parody- if I was going to write a novel purely with the purpose to mock the author this is probably what I would come up with.
After reading for myself I can sadly confirm that this novel is terrible! I found it a very difficult read and found myself frequently lost in paragraphs I had to reread. I am still not sure what it is even about other than as a tool for morrissey to rant about his favourite topics: politics (and thatcher specifically), factory farming, veganism, the cruelty of the human race and sex. I found the narrative very inconsistent and always returns to morrissey's much too obvious voice on these subjects with little to no point to the characters story line.
All in all it reads as a parody- if I was going to write a novel purely with the purpose to mock the author this is probably what I would come up with.
tenthplanet1's review
2.0
Far too ambitious for a writer of Morrissey’s questionable story writing talent. Although there’s some good passages, the mixing of essay and story is so clunkily done, and everything so over-written, that it just becomes an irritating headache. Perhaps Morrissey would’ve been better suited writing a collection of essays and short stories, for his storytelling is abysmal. Over-explanatory wordy prose stands in for decent plotting, of which there’s not much.
cherylcheng00's review
1.0
Guardian said it best: Please don’t encourage Morrissey to write any more novels. http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2015/sep/24/morrissey-what-we-learned-about-him-from-list-of-the-lost
Apparently this book was not edited, because it features so many off-topic tangents that you have no idea where it is going. The characters are hardly developed, and the overall plot is ridiculous. Morrissey really should have written a book of his rants rather than pretend to couch them in an undeveloped story of nonsense.
Apparently this book was not edited, because it features so many off-topic tangents that you have no idea where it is going. The characters are hardly developed, and the overall plot is ridiculous. Morrissey really should have written a book of his rants rather than pretend to couch them in an undeveloped story of nonsense.
pinkalpaca's review
3.0
Wow, this book has a lot of hate. Which is what happens I guess when Morrissey writes something or says something or eats something or...anyway I digress. So at first I was a bit put off; it's verbose, it's dense, it's...a bit boring. We'd already learned before that Mr. Moz doesn't particularly care for indentation. I stuck with with it, 'cause hello, Morrissey wrote it! And it's like barely over 100 pages long.
Every time I picked the book up, I found myself really getting into it after a page or two. Morrissey definitely has his own style (which is to be expected), but it reminded me of Beat fiction. It's just a different rhythm than everything else. There's lots of alliteration and snappy little lyrical (!) phrases. As for the story, it's a moment in time, turning this way and that way and this way and that way, rather unexpectedly.
So it's not the greatest work of literature ever, so what? I didn't expect it to be. I think it's clear Moz enjoyed writing it and it's rather refreshing to read a piece of writing that's so unusual from everything else. It's also great that people feel so free to completely tear down an artist's work. Ah, people's opinions, where would we be without them?
Every time I picked the book up, I found myself really getting into it after a page or two. Morrissey definitely has his own style (which is to be expected), but it reminded me of Beat fiction. It's just a different rhythm than everything else. There's lots of alliteration and snappy little lyrical (!) phrases. As for the story, it's a moment in time, turning this way and that way and this way and that way, rather unexpectedly.
So it's not the greatest work of literature ever, so what? I didn't expect it to be. I think it's clear Moz enjoyed writing it and it's rather refreshing to read a piece of writing that's so unusual from everything else. It's also great that people feel so free to completely tear down an artist's work. Ah, people's opinions, where would we be without them?
debumere's review
1.0
I got halfway through this book before abandoning it, and that, in itself, is a massive achievement.
The language is so highbrow and Morrissey is deadly intent in trying to prove his intelligence and position as next to Godly.
Using descriptions such as 'Splendiferous stockbroking hamlets', 'locked together in a triangular scrum of strong arms and choked sobs', and 'who is to say that their closeness was not in fact a liberating scream of the intensely sensual?' made me feel deep anger rising.
Really, Morrissey, really?
One for the fire. Only benefit you can actually get out of this book.
The language is so highbrow and Morrissey is deadly intent in trying to prove his intelligence and position as next to Godly.
Using descriptions such as 'Splendiferous stockbroking hamlets', 'locked together in a triangular scrum of strong arms and choked sobs', and 'who is to say that their closeness was not in fact a liberating scream of the intensely sensual?' made me feel deep anger rising.
Really, Morrissey, really?
One for the fire. Only benefit you can actually get out of this book.
tashberbank's review
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.