Customer Reviews

The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature: The Collected Writings of Neal Pollack

5 star:		(22)
4 star:		(7)
3 star:		(3)
2 star:		(3)
1 star:		(4)

 

 

Since neither the McSweeney crowd nor their fans have shown the slightest interest in providing anything resembling an informative description of Pollack's book (I guess that would be missing the point), I thought I would at least try, without giving away too much. What we have here is a slim volume of twenty or so parodies of journalistic hubris, most of them shameless confessional profiles ("I marveled at what a different person I'd turned out to be than my grandfather, he the world's largest manufacturer of tube socks and low-grade nuclear weapons, me a free-lance magazine writer, published writer, founder of an experimental kindergarten in the Bronx, and male fashion model.") told by the ubiquitous Gonzo hack, Neal Pollack. There's Pollack in Paris ("Unfortunately, as usual, the waiter didn't speak English, but I communicated to him by rubbing my stomach and clawing insanely at my bloodshot eyes."), in Cuba ("I have been in Cuba for eight days now, and have had sex with 65 different women . . . [One] became my slave for a day after I gave her my copy of The New Yorker's summer fiction issue."), and on "Oprah" with Toni Morrison ("Well, we must form a mutual admiration society. I almost quit writing after I read "Beloved," and I still love "The Pinkest Eye"). But he's at his best on the subject of his own talent: "As for my flaws, my writing is often so damn good that I have a hard time following my own act. Nevertheless, I usually succeed." Nothing original here; Pope did this sort of thing back in the 1740's in "Martinus Scriblerus," as did Irving in "Salmagundi" (perhaps "McSweeney's" earliest NY predecessor) in the early 1800's. At least Pollack knows that this sort of satire works best when it's brief. That said, the best things about the book are the title and the cover. As for the Pollack/Eggers rumor: I think Pollack's new in-laws in Nashville (a very unMcSweeney place) would be suprised to learn that their new son-in-law is really Dave Eggers.

Will the "thought piece" that pollutes our magazines and newspapers ever be the same after this book?

Probably.

Unfortunately.

But that's not due to Pollack's efforts: he has adopted a persona and style here which is outrageous and hilarious, and lampoons so many of the tedious articles we've read in the tony magazines. He has puffed up his free-lance narrator in marvelous fashion, with the most hilariously adulatory jacket I've ever read, and a self-conscious prose that is worth sharing with all your friends. One very small example will suffice: on a dock, eating his breakfast banana, the free-lance journalist writes, "my knees trembled with the knowledge that this could be my last food until lunch."

No, Pollack will not change the world with this sublime volume. Not yet. Would that he could!

Pollack has an different style using a near solipsistic approach to everything. At first it is funny. His aping of classic texts gives the same feeling as getting an obscure joke on 'The Simpsons' - you feel happy about being so smart and everyone else is soooo bourgeois.... But after reading through five or ten of the shorts, it gets tiresome. Every piece seems to be the same story in a different setting. I would rather read some actual literature than this joke book.

After recently reading both Dave Eggars' "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" (which was wonderful) and his delightfully articulated rant against bad taste and bad art (directed at a poor writer for the Harvard Advocate), I was genuinely optimistic that Neal Pollack's book (published by Eggars's imprint, McSweeney's Books) would be a worthwhile follow-up read to "AHWOSG." Alas, Pollack's book, while clever and dead-on accurate in its parody of first-person journalism, wears thin very quickly, and the joke becomes fast repetitive. Borrow this book from the library, but save your money.

im not in the book-selling biz, but The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature is the funniest f-ing thing ive read since `Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" twenty years ago. Its a spinal tap for modern lit. It begins with this introduction:

"Recently, as I entertained a variety of friends and acquaintances (many of whom are employed in publishing and the arts), at my modest yet comfortable summer estate in Malta, it occurred to me that I am almost definitely the greatest writer of my time. I strained to think of others who could challenge my position, but they were too provincial,too tweedy, or too dead. No. I towered above the corroded wreckage that is American letters."

he exquisitely violates every level of literary sense - his leads are so bad theyre classic, his metaphors so tired they "glisten like a glistening jewel" -- this book not only makes me howl when i see vanity fair, or gore vidal, or norman mailer or oliver stone, or a couple of local friends anymore, it makes me nervous about including myself in my own writing - and best of all if one were to strip the style convention from the 'tome' the stories are roaringly ridiculous - this book accomplishes everything bret easton ellis tries to do - without all the posing

Neal Pollack is a genius with the pen. Nothing is too pure to molest, nothing is too sick to reveal. Mr. Pollack is a legend in his own time and is quite deserving of your attention and respect. You should do what you can to form a cult and sacrifice yourself immediately after his next tour. No, don't do that. You must stick around and buy multiple copies of every book he writes. When he dies, we must pick up the pen and create new works under his name for the masses. Special cloaks will have to be made. Incense will have to be purchased. Colorful translucent plastic sandals will be fashioned. We shall overcome. Dance my beautiful shadow, dance.

Neal Pollack has written a splendid, hilarious, and badly needed parody of self-centered white male authors. His targets range from credible authors such as Gore Vidal and Hemmingway, to more minute members of the species such as Sebastian Junger. And while Pollack may not be aware of it, he has splendidly managed to ridicule the hubris, egotism, and total lack of talent of more obscure "all about me" writers such as Thomas Beller.

Many critics have argued that Pollack's joke was too narrow to warrant the number of pages contained in this modest sized volume. While it is true that some of the parodies are not as funny as others, the book remains, diverse, interesting, and consistently funny. In "The Albania of My Existence", Pollack (clearly imitating Sebastian Junger) discusses what war torn Albania means to his identity and his accomplishments. In "I Am Friends with a Working Class Black Woman" he mirrors countless White guys who believe they are cool enough to understand and to be accepted by poor black people. In "It is Easy to Take a Love in Cuba", Pollack... well, you get the idea. This book is hilarious. It strips egotistical, White male authors and puts them on display. There is no reason why we can't enjoy the writing of some of those authors and also enjoy the skillful manner in which Pollack roasts them.

Like a poorly written sitcom, Pollack has one joke: his exceptional being, together with hyperbole which supports his one joke. The writing is sophomoric at best, tedious at worst. I was appalled that a publisher would put out such drivel. I won't even give this away. This set has been placed--appropriately--in the proverbial circular file. Unless you enjoy his brand of humor (self-aggrandizement carried beyond the extreme), save your money.

This is undoubtedly one of the most unusual books I've ever read, and I've read some weird stuff. "Pollack" is a very funny book, although it's not without its flaws. All the stories have the same theme, how he is the "greatest American writer of our time." From "The Albania of my Existence" to "Secrets of the Mystery Jew" all his pieces begin with seemingly legitimate topics and eventually degenerate into patting himself on the back for being so talented and handsome. This aside it is an excellent book, "Pollack" contains the kind of over the top humor used by such writers as Woody Allen. While it may take only an afternoon to read, it'll be a well-spent afternoon.

Pollack proves that the only thing necessary to be an artist in this society is the audacity to call oneself such. I've slogged through a couple of his self-indulgent works now, and from what I can see, he's an author because he says so. Unfortunately he's not alone; the people with egos big enough to believe they are something are granted celebrity or at least book contracts just because they have the hutzpah to tell the world what every person's mama made him or her believe for a while: I'm special. Most people grow up and realize that everyone is special but nobody's really THAT special. Pollack seems to still believe that he is not one of the very folk he attempts so weakly to satirize, a pompous bag of air who should be penalized for every tree that dies in the service of his vanity. He's an average writer with average opinions and really should take a breath and realize he's OK without being "special." Then he should give the reading public a break and get a real job.