Customer Reviews

Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket

5 star:		(17)
4 star:		(0)
3 star:		(0)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

It's me, John Weir, responding to the guy/girl who hated my book so much. Yo: I hate it, too. It's over-written, and I didn't make nothing in royalties. Plus, where was the hype? Was I hyped while I wasn't looking? Dude, it sold 4000 copies. Dave Eggers is hyped. I'm a clown who wrote a book. I won't argue that it's "silly" or, whatever, "trivial." Anyway, those are two of my favorite qualities. As for exploiting AIDS, well, I gotta ask: do the words "dying homosexual" make anyone *you* know run to the nearest bookstore? If I was gonna exploit something for laughs and personal gain, I would've picked a topic that sells. I wish I were more of an exploiter! Then I could pay the Parking Violations Bureau. It is of course true that all - count 'em - six of my blurbs were written by my friends and students. Apparently they hadn't heard that I give *A*s to everyone anyway. You should know that my next book is one long grim and unrelenting dirge about tragedy and loss. Of course, it's set in New Jersey.

Bringing fine fiction to satisfied readers for over a decade, I remain, your humble author,

John Weir.

I moved to New York City at the age of 29 on Halloween weekend in 1982. I didn't know I was entering the front door of a devastating health crisis which was going to target people just like me. Gay men. New York was always overwhelming and sexy when I visited in the 70's. In the 80's it was as overwhelming and sexy but men who looked just like me were beginning to vanish before my eyes. I became a volunteer at Gay Men's Health Crisis in part I think because I believed if I rolled up my sleeves and volunteered it would save my life. And it did.

The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket rings true to me. Every word. Every character. Every plot turn. Every wickedly funny joke. In the late 70's and into the 80's there were many Eddie Socket's roaming New York City in their pink Keds and many of them died. They didn't receive a featured Obit in the Times. They didn't win a Tony award. They didn't discover a cure to anything. They rarely rose above mediocre temp jobs and deep friendships with slightly overweight gal pals. These thousands of vanished Eddie's are mourned by their chubby gal pals and their divorced parents. But no one else.

John Weir gives story and face to people who walk by you on the street every day but who you never see. This is what great novelists do. It's really all they do. And it is more than enough. It is, in fact, heroic.

In many ways I think writing a review on [...] is the kind of lonely and slightly meaningless thing a character like Eddie Socket would do. Who will ever read this review? This novel is almost 20 years old. It wouldn't be considered a sensational book world success. But it is a success because it is a wonderful novel. The writing is lush and gorgeous and funny and sad. And I write this little review to witness and pay testimony to that gorgeous writing. Whether the book sold 10 copies or 10,000---it is a success in my eyes.

The added tragedy is that many of the Eddie Socket's who migrated to New York City from the farms of America considered themselves writers. Or painters. Or dancers. Or actors. But most died before they finished a book anywhere near as good as this one. Many works of Art and works of mediocrity were lost forever.

So we come back to this zippy, sexy novel. It's good. Really. If you don't think so, well, neither I nor Eddie really care.

Bravo, Mr. Weir.

Dear Readers: It's me John Weir, author of *The Irreversible Decline of Eddie Socket*, once again trying to pump up my rating by giving myself 5 gold stars. If you can do the math, go ahead and subtract my grade from the overall score. I just want to say that of everything I've published in the past 16 years - a novel, a bunch of magazine articles, a couple of short stories, a plea on Craig's List to sell an old dresser - nothing has gotten as much response as the snarky little blurb I wrote about my own book, a few years ago, on amazon.com. (See below.) People - strangers! not always cute! - come up to me on the street and say, "Hey, I read what you said about your book on amazon.com. Heh heh heh." Then of course they mention that they have never actually read the book. Just the blurb *about* the book. "Don't read it," I tell them, "just buy it," but they shrug and walk away. This brings me to a question: Should I in fact be publishing my next novel as a series of blurbs *about* my novel on amazon.com? A series of 1000-word excerpts, parceled out over several years? Because there is of course a new novel. It's called *What I Did Wrong*, and Viking is publishing it this March. I won't tell you what I think of it! You'll have to wait for my snarky response to aggrieved readers. In the meantime, I want to thank each of the 11 people who gave my book 5 gold stars, and I want to warn the two readers - Captain and Mrs. Bringdown - who did *not* like *Eddie Socket* that the new book is even funnier - and, I hope, more wrenching - about AIDS and loss and death and New Jersey, if those are in fact separate categories. Yours very sincerely, John Weir.

If I'd never read this book, I would think the 10 or so five-star reviews (aside from the author's!) were the overwrought rantings of too-easily-pleased readers. But I did read it, so I know it's just as good as other reviewers say.

I first read it in high school about 15 years ago and have reread it maybe five times since. Like other reviewers said, it's one of a few books that I quoted incessantly. To this day I could recite many lines from it, including the shocking first five words of Part 2. (I might have that placement wrong because I no longer have my copy, but I'm pretty sure it's right and that other readers will know what I mean.)

Yes, this book is snarky and funny and full of pop culture references. I laughed tons of times while reading it and remember many of its funniest lines. But it's also emotionally devastating and made me sob. (In fact, I teared up reading another review of it here!) I cried for Eddie, and also for the wrenching descriptions of the loss of love from the Saul subplot.

None of these stories are my story -- I was a teenage girl and then a young woman -- and I could've seen them as other people's tragedies. But the book is so moving and powerful that that would've been impossible. True story: After a breakup in college, I decided to reread this book to wallow in the emotional experience. I finished it in a few days and then lent my copy to my ex-boyfriend, who loved it as much as I did.

It's difficult for me to understand why this book hasn't been a major bestseller. As its reviews here indicate, it's truly a hidden gem.

This is a remarkable novel: it's great to see it back in print. The story of Eddie Socket and his friends and family--Polly Plugg, Merritt Mather, Saul, Eulene, and, yes, Doris Day and Joseph Stalin--is touching and funny at once, and the novel's a strong commentary on the United States in the 1980s ("the pure products of America go crazy"; who am I quoting?). This is one of the most complex and rewarding works of art to come out of the AIDS crisis.

At some point in life, many of us entertain the thought that we can write books. We jot down ideas, sit in cafes, go to workshops and type, type, type. The fact is, few of us have what it takes, and that's how critics are born. I read this book years ago on a plane to Australia. It was a long flight, somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty hours. I remember laughing, crying, laughing, lots of crying and thinking, this is a great book. Great literature? Who knows, who cares. What matters in life, is the emotional: do you walk away with an emotional connection? If the words were over ripe, who cares? Did you not feel anything? Many reviews here are from the bitter, untalented individuals who find it easier to type a review than a novel. This is obvious because the attacks are personal. All great literature is emotional, it has to be, it is where we connect art to our own lives. This was book was emotional, well written and frankly, should have been made into a movie a long time ago.

I sometimes rush through novels rather quickly. With this one, I kept reading it a little a time, even switching to other novels that I had told someone I'd read. However, I never lost interest in it. Something about this book made me keep wanting to enjoy it over time, and it almost disappointed me when I reached the end. I loved the ending, and the entire book, but its episodic nature and its wild mixture of narrative devices made it a reading experience I kept wanting to sustain. The main character's relationships with his mother, his lovers, and the world bring up a host of insecurities, further complicated by AIDS, materialism, and deep longings. John Weir makes readers laugh, while he treats them to a thoughtfully complex reading experience.

(Duane Simolke's books include The Acorn Stories, Degranon, and New Readings of Winesburg, Ohio.)

I've tried to read this book for a few years, and always stopped after a few pages because I knew too many people like this and it bothers me to read about them so many years after they've died. This book isn't exploitative, it is pretty darn gentle and accessible and fair. That was a totally different world and this book does a great job showing what it was like. That might be hard to believe for many who didn't see it but the passivity, banality, bad clothing, trite comments, and constant death and irreversible decline was there and it looked like this described. So if you want to an easy-to-read funny book about a strange time of history this is the book to read!

I have no accolades equal to my love for this book. When I first purchased it from a bargain rack (sorry, Mr. Weir) and took it home, it was expected to be just another of the many bits of gay literature that my best friend and I were constantly reading. That was what, 10 years ago? It is the only one of the books we read during that time that we still quote. The only one we both remember well enough to do so... Eddie and Merritt and Saul and Polly became parts of our lives. The first time I read it I literally couldn't put it down. I read it cover to cover in one sitting while my husband threw quizzical glances my way. He had never heard me laugh aloud while reading. Nor had he seen me brought to tears by a book before this one. I consider it a masterpiece, a candid snapshot of a place and time filled with heartbreak, despair, and a joie de vivre equal to that found in so many of the great novels.

Rarely has a book touched me to the core. Rarer still has a book been worth reading three times (Sorry, John, I did not buy 3 copies). The terrible invisible-ness of being nice, insecure and a tiny hero in a large urban landscape are what make Eddie one of my favorite characters. Ranks with David Feinberg and John Fox as one of those authors whose book you never forget. I can't remember the amount of times I've said, "Who am I quoting?" after cribbing a famous movie line. Also think of Eddie every time I pass the old globe at the ghost-like World's Fairgrounds in Queens on the way to NYC airport (you have to read it to get that reference).

More, John, more!!!