Disappointing, unbelievable, shameful, scandalous, in other words, a travesty. What is there not to like about Portnoy's complaint? How can the utterance of "I really did not like it" be anything less than a pointless provocation? How could it be anything more than an inaccuracy ? Harry G. Frankfurt has attempted to describe this specie of pointless polemic by remarking that of all things, those that we know the least about are ourselves and thus, sincerity is bullshit. This proves the statement of distaste as an inaccuracy.
No wonder why, in light of all this, he could not tolerate listening to Frankfurt while pretending to work; why he had to retaliate by playing a highly offensive brand of smooth jazz all this with the satisfied grin of one who knew the validity of his taste (cf. bullshit above).
1 comment:
If memory serves correctly, it was the prose that turned me off, because alas, style is everything.
And, with a first person narrative, I like my characters to be truly despicable, not just mildly annoying.
Lastly, a voyage of self-discovery that leads to disillusionment seems so first-novel; an often-told tale needs more pyrotechnics to distract me.
Blah blah, and etc, with something about preferring more formal complexity, some wrestling with darker darkness. But I read the book, oh, 12 years ago, and besides, I'm probably wrong.
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