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A review by irreverentreader
Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West
1.0
I wasn't expecting another book to give Faulkner a run for its money as being the worst I've read this year, but damn, Nathanael West, you gave it a real shot.
This is another book that greatly suffers from misleading marketing writing on its back cover. A male newspaper writer that writes an advice column for the suffering during the depression and fights against a tormenting boss--sounds great. What it actually was: a book that is apparently labeled as "dark satire" that was neither funny or witty, a conglomeration of disjointed tales that did not interrelate to one another, and a story that revolved around such incredibly revolting toxic masculine rage and hatred--from both the characters and seemingly the author--that I felt nauseous reading it.
What is it with these male authors of this time period (I'm looking at you DH Lawerence, and you Ford Maddox Ford) who can only write in volatile emotions, who clearly have disturbed ideas of what women are (objects, often sexual) and who men should be (angry, abusive, nihilistic)? It's gross. In this tiny book, rape and other violence makes an appearance more times than I would care to count. West takes the idea so lightly and tosses it around with such ease that the line of satire and what the authors beliefs are becomes blurred. And when West's writing isn't that great to begin with (honestly rudimentary at best), it's clear he's not talented enough to tread that thin line of witty, snarky human observation and ends up just being crude. If you want to read a master of satire, read Sinclair Lewis.
Another one-star reviewer of this book wrote that they didn't think Nathanael West liked being a writer. Nor did they think that he really liked women, men, or anything about life. I couldn't agree more. Hard pass on him in the future.
This is another book that greatly suffers from misleading marketing writing on its back cover. A male newspaper writer that writes an advice column for the suffering during the depression and fights against a tormenting boss--sounds great. What it actually was: a book that is apparently labeled as "dark satire" that was neither funny or witty, a conglomeration of disjointed tales that did not interrelate to one another, and a story that revolved around such incredibly revolting toxic masculine rage and hatred--from both the characters and seemingly the author--that I felt nauseous reading it.
What is it with these male authors of this time period (I'm looking at you DH Lawerence, and you Ford Maddox Ford) who can only write in volatile emotions, who clearly have disturbed ideas of what women are (objects, often sexual) and who men should be (angry, abusive, nihilistic)? It's gross. In this tiny book, rape and other violence makes an appearance more times than I would care to count. West takes the idea so lightly and tosses it around with such ease that the line of satire and what the authors beliefs are becomes blurred. And when West's writing isn't that great to begin with (honestly rudimentary at best), it's clear he's not talented enough to tread that thin line of witty, snarky human observation and ends up just being crude. If you want to read a master of satire, read Sinclair Lewis.
Another one-star reviewer of this book wrote that they didn't think Nathanael West liked being a writer. Nor did they think that he really liked women, men, or anything about life. I couldn't agree more. Hard pass on him in the future.