From the author of Fight Club, comes a dark, irreverent, hilarious, and brilliant satire about adolescence, Hell, and the Devil.
Madison is the thirteen-year-old daughter of a narcissistic film star and a billionaire. Abandoned at her Swiss boarding school over Christmas, she dies over the holiday, presumably of a marijuana overdose. The last thing she remembers is getting into a town car and falling asleep. Then she's waking up in Hell. Literally. Madison soon finds that she shares a cell with a motley crew of young sinners: a cheerleader, a jock, a nerd, and a punk rocker, united by their doomed fate, like an afterschool detention for the damned. Together they form an odd coalition and march across the unspeakable landscape of Hell--full of used diapers, dandruff, WiFi blackout spots, evil historical figures, and one horrific call center--to confront the Devil himself.
Damned
et plus d'un million d'autres livres sont disponibles pour le Kindle d'Amazon. En savoir plus
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Description de l'ouvrage
Descriptions du produit
Extrait
I.
Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. I’m just now arrived here, in Hell, but it’s not my fault except for maybe dying from an overdose of marijuana. Maybe I’m in Hell because I’m fat--a Real Porker. If you can go to Hell for having low self-esteem, that’s why I’m here. I wish I could lie and tell you I’m bone-thin with blond hair and big ta-tas. But, trust me, I’m fat for a really good reason.
To start with, please let me introduce myself.
How to best convey the exact sensation of being dead . . .
Yes, I know the word convey. I’m dead, not a mental defective.
Trust me, the being-dead part is much easier than the dying part. If you can watch much television, then being dead will be a cinch. Actually, watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice for being dead.
The closest way I can describe death is to compare it to when my mom boots up her notebook computer and hacks into the surveillance system of our house in Mazatlan or Banff. “Look,” she’d say, turning the screen sideways for me to see, “it’s snowing.” Glowing softly on the computer would be the interior of our Milan house, the sitting room, with snow falling outside the big windows, and by long distance, holding down her Control, Alt and W keys, my mom would draw open the sitting room drapes all the way. Pressing the Control and D keys, she’d dim the lights by remote control and we’d both sit, on a train or in a rented town car or aboard a leased jet, watching the pretty winter view through the windows of that empty house displayed on her computer screen. With the Control and F keys, she’d light a fire in the gas fireplace, and we’d listen to the hush of the Italian snow falling, the crackle of the flames via the audio monitors of the security system. After that, my mom would keyboard into the system for our house in Cape Town. Then log on to view our house in Brentwood. She could simultaneously be all places but no place, mooning over sunsets and foliage everywhere except where she actually was. At best, a sentry. At worst, a voyeur.
My mom will kill half a day on her notebook computer just looking at empty rooms full of our furniture. Tweaking the thermostat by remote control. Turning down the lights and choosing the right level of soft music to play in each room. “Just to keep the cat burglars guessing,” she’d tell me. She’d toggle from camera to camera, watching the Somali maid clean our house in Paris. Hunched over her computer screen, she’d sigh and say, “My crocus are blooming in London. . . .”
From behind his open business section of the Times, my dad would say, “The plural is crocuses.”
Probably my mom would cackle then, hitting her Control and L keys to lock a maid inside a bathroom from three continents away because the tile didn’t look adequately polished. To her this passed for way-wicked, good fun. It’s affecting the environment without being physically present. Consumption in absentia. Like having a hit song you recorded decades ago still occupy the mind of a Chinese sweatshop worker you’ll never meet. It’s power, but a kind of pointless, impotent power.
On the computer screen a maid would place a vase filled with fresh-cut peonies on the windowsill of our house in Dubai, and my mom would spy by satellite, turning down the air-conditioning, colder and colder, with a tapping keystroke via her wireless connection, chilling that house, that one room, meat-locker cold, ski-slope cold, spending a king’s ransom on Freon and electric power, trying to make some doomed ten bucks’ worth of pretty pink flowers last one more day.
That’s what it’s like to be dead. Yes, I know the word absentia. I’m thirteen years old, not stupid--and being dead, ye gods, do I comprehend the idea of absentia.
Being dead is the very essence of traveling light.
Being dead-dead means nonstop, twenty-four/seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year . . . forever.
How it feels when they pump out all of your blood, you don’t want me to describe. Probably I shouldn’t even tell you I’m dead, because no doubt now you feel awfully superior. Even other fat people feel superior to Dead People. Nevertheless, here it is: my Hideous Admission. I’ll fess up and come clean. I’m out of the closet. I’m dead. Now don’t hold it against me.
Yes, we all look a little mysterious and absurd to each other, but no one looks as foreign as a dead person does. We can forgive some stranger her choice to practice Catholicism or engage in homosexual acts, but not her submission to death. We hate a backslider. Worse than alcoholism or heroin addiction, dying seems like the greatest weakness, and in a world where people say you’re lazy for not shaving your legs, then being dead seems like the ultimate character flaw.
It’s as if you’ve shirked life--simply not made enough serious effort to live up to your full potential. You quitter! Being fat and dead--let me tell you--that’s the double whammy.
No, it’s not fair, but even if you feel sorry for me, you’re probably also feeling pretty darn smug that you’re alive and no doubt chewing on a mouthful of some poor animal that had the misfortune to live below you on the food chain. I’m not telling you all of this to gain your sympathy. I’m thirteen years old, and a girl, and I’m dead. My name is Madison, and the last thing I need is your stupid condescending pity. No, it’s not fair, but it’s how people do. The first time we meet another person an insidious little voice in our head says, “I might wear eyeglasses or be chunky around the hips or a girl, but at least I’m not Gay or Black or a Jew.” Meaning: I may be me--but at least I have the good sense not to be YOU. So I hesitate to even mention that I’m dead because everyone already feels so darned superior to dead people, even Mexicans and AIDS people. It’s like when learning about Alexander the Great in our seventh-grade Influences of Western History class, what keeps running through your head is: “If Alexander was so brave and smart and . . . Great . . . why’d he die?”
Yes, I know the word insidious.
Death is the One Big Mistake that none of us EVER plans to make. That’s why the bran muffins and the colonoscopies. It’s how come you take vitamins and get Pap smears. No, not you--you’re never going to die--so now you feel all superior to me. Well, go ahead and think that. Keep smearing your skin with sunblock and feeling yourself for lumps. Don’t let me spoil the Big Surprise.
But, to be honest, when you’re dead probably not even homeless people and retarded people will want to trade you places. I mean, worms get to eat you. It’s like a complete violation of all your civil rights. Death ought to be illegal but you don’t see Amnesty International starting any letter-writing campaigns. You don’t see any rock stars banding together to release hit singles with all the proceeds going to solve MY getting my face chewed off by worms.
My mom would tell you I’m too flip and glib about everything. My mom would say, “Madison, please don’t be such a smart aleck.” She’d say, “You’re dead; now just calm down.”
Probably me being dead is a gigantic relief to my dad; this way, at least, he won’t have to worry about me embarrassing him by getting pregnant. My dad used to say, “Madison, whatever man ends up with you, he’s going to have his hands full. . . .” If my dad only knew.
When my goldfish, Mister Wiggles, died we flushed him down the toilet. When my kitten, Tiger Stripe, died I tried the same deal, and we had to call a plumber to snake the pipes. What a big mess. Poor Tiger Stripe. When I died, I won’t go into the details, but let’s say some Mr. Pervy McPervert mortician got to see me naked and pump out all my blood and commit God only knows what deranged carnal high jinks with my virginal thirteen-year-old body. You can call me glib, but death is about the biggest joke around. After all the permanent waves and ballet lessons my mom paid for, here I am getting a hot-spit tongue bath from some paunchy, depraved mortuary guy.
I can tell you, when you’re dead, you pretty much have to give up your demands about boundaries and personal space. Just understand, I didn’t die because I was too lazy to live. I didn’t die because I wanted to punish my family. And no matter how much I slag my parents, don’t get the idea that I hate them. Yes, for a while I hung around, watching my mom hunched over her notebook computer, tapping the keys Control, Alt, and L to lock the door of my bedroom in Rome, my room in Athens, all my rooms around the world. She keyboarded to close all my drapes after that, and turn down the air-conditioning and activate the electrostatic air filtration so not even dust would settle on my dolls and clothes and stuffed animals. It simply makes sense that I should miss my parents more than they miss me, especially when you consider that they only loved me for thirteen years while I loved them for my entire life. Forgive me for not sticking around longer, but I don’t want to be dead and just watching everybody while I chill rooms, flicker the lights, and pull the drapes open and shut. I don’t want to be simply a voyeur.
No, it’s not fair, but what makes earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it should feel like Heaven. Earth is earth. Dead is dead. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. It won’t help the situation for you to get all upset.--Ce texte fait référence à l'édition
Broché
.
Are you there, Satan? It’s me, Madison. I’m just now arrived here, in Hell, but it’s not my fault except for maybe dying from an overdose of marijuana. Maybe I’m in Hell because I’m fat--a Real Porker. If you can go to Hell for having low self-esteem, that’s why I’m here. I wish I could lie and tell you I’m bone-thin with blond hair and big ta-tas. But, trust me, I’m fat for a really good reason.
To start with, please let me introduce myself.
How to best convey the exact sensation of being dead . . .
Yes, I know the word convey. I’m dead, not a mental defective.
Trust me, the being-dead part is much easier than the dying part. If you can watch much television, then being dead will be a cinch. Actually, watching television and surfing the Internet are really excellent practice for being dead.
The closest way I can describe death is to compare it to when my mom boots up her notebook computer and hacks into the surveillance system of our house in Mazatlan or Banff. “Look,” she’d say, turning the screen sideways for me to see, “it’s snowing.” Glowing softly on the computer would be the interior of our Milan house, the sitting room, with snow falling outside the big windows, and by long distance, holding down her Control, Alt and W keys, my mom would draw open the sitting room drapes all the way. Pressing the Control and D keys, she’d dim the lights by remote control and we’d both sit, on a train or in a rented town car or aboard a leased jet, watching the pretty winter view through the windows of that empty house displayed on her computer screen. With the Control and F keys, she’d light a fire in the gas fireplace, and we’d listen to the hush of the Italian snow falling, the crackle of the flames via the audio monitors of the security system. After that, my mom would keyboard into the system for our house in Cape Town. Then log on to view our house in Brentwood. She could simultaneously be all places but no place, mooning over sunsets and foliage everywhere except where she actually was. At best, a sentry. At worst, a voyeur.
My mom will kill half a day on her notebook computer just looking at empty rooms full of our furniture. Tweaking the thermostat by remote control. Turning down the lights and choosing the right level of soft music to play in each room. “Just to keep the cat burglars guessing,” she’d tell me. She’d toggle from camera to camera, watching the Somali maid clean our house in Paris. Hunched over her computer screen, she’d sigh and say, “My crocus are blooming in London. . . .”
From behind his open business section of the Times, my dad would say, “The plural is crocuses.”
Probably my mom would cackle then, hitting her Control and L keys to lock a maid inside a bathroom from three continents away because the tile didn’t look adequately polished. To her this passed for way-wicked, good fun. It’s affecting the environment without being physically present. Consumption in absentia. Like having a hit song you recorded decades ago still occupy the mind of a Chinese sweatshop worker you’ll never meet. It’s power, but a kind of pointless, impotent power.
On the computer screen a maid would place a vase filled with fresh-cut peonies on the windowsill of our house in Dubai, and my mom would spy by satellite, turning down the air-conditioning, colder and colder, with a tapping keystroke via her wireless connection, chilling that house, that one room, meat-locker cold, ski-slope cold, spending a king’s ransom on Freon and electric power, trying to make some doomed ten bucks’ worth of pretty pink flowers last one more day.
That’s what it’s like to be dead. Yes, I know the word absentia. I’m thirteen years old, not stupid--and being dead, ye gods, do I comprehend the idea of absentia.
Being dead is the very essence of traveling light.
Being dead-dead means nonstop, twenty-four/seven, three hundred sixty-five days a year . . . forever.
How it feels when they pump out all of your blood, you don’t want me to describe. Probably I shouldn’t even tell you I’m dead, because no doubt now you feel awfully superior. Even other fat people feel superior to Dead People. Nevertheless, here it is: my Hideous Admission. I’ll fess up and come clean. I’m out of the closet. I’m dead. Now don’t hold it against me.
Yes, we all look a little mysterious and absurd to each other, but no one looks as foreign as a dead person does. We can forgive some stranger her choice to practice Catholicism or engage in homosexual acts, but not her submission to death. We hate a backslider. Worse than alcoholism or heroin addiction, dying seems like the greatest weakness, and in a world where people say you’re lazy for not shaving your legs, then being dead seems like the ultimate character flaw.
It’s as if you’ve shirked life--simply not made enough serious effort to live up to your full potential. You quitter! Being fat and dead--let me tell you--that’s the double whammy.
No, it’s not fair, but even if you feel sorry for me, you’re probably also feeling pretty darn smug that you’re alive and no doubt chewing on a mouthful of some poor animal that had the misfortune to live below you on the food chain. I’m not telling you all of this to gain your sympathy. I’m thirteen years old, and a girl, and I’m dead. My name is Madison, and the last thing I need is your stupid condescending pity. No, it’s not fair, but it’s how people do. The first time we meet another person an insidious little voice in our head says, “I might wear eyeglasses or be chunky around the hips or a girl, but at least I’m not Gay or Black or a Jew.” Meaning: I may be me--but at least I have the good sense not to be YOU. So I hesitate to even mention that I’m dead because everyone already feels so darned superior to dead people, even Mexicans and AIDS people. It’s like when learning about Alexander the Great in our seventh-grade Influences of Western History class, what keeps running through your head is: “If Alexander was so brave and smart and . . . Great . . . why’d he die?”
Yes, I know the word insidious.
Death is the One Big Mistake that none of us EVER plans to make. That’s why the bran muffins and the colonoscopies. It’s how come you take vitamins and get Pap smears. No, not you--you’re never going to die--so now you feel all superior to me. Well, go ahead and think that. Keep smearing your skin with sunblock and feeling yourself for lumps. Don’t let me spoil the Big Surprise.
But, to be honest, when you’re dead probably not even homeless people and retarded people will want to trade you places. I mean, worms get to eat you. It’s like a complete violation of all your civil rights. Death ought to be illegal but you don’t see Amnesty International starting any letter-writing campaigns. You don’t see any rock stars banding together to release hit singles with all the proceeds going to solve MY getting my face chewed off by worms.
My mom would tell you I’m too flip and glib about everything. My mom would say, “Madison, please don’t be such a smart aleck.” She’d say, “You’re dead; now just calm down.”
Probably me being dead is a gigantic relief to my dad; this way, at least, he won’t have to worry about me embarrassing him by getting pregnant. My dad used to say, “Madison, whatever man ends up with you, he’s going to have his hands full. . . .” If my dad only knew.
When my goldfish, Mister Wiggles, died we flushed him down the toilet. When my kitten, Tiger Stripe, died I tried the same deal, and we had to call a plumber to snake the pipes. What a big mess. Poor Tiger Stripe. When I died, I won’t go into the details, but let’s say some Mr. Pervy McPervert mortician got to see me naked and pump out all my blood and commit God only knows what deranged carnal high jinks with my virginal thirteen-year-old body. You can call me glib, but death is about the biggest joke around. After all the permanent waves and ballet lessons my mom paid for, here I am getting a hot-spit tongue bath from some paunchy, depraved mortuary guy.
I can tell you, when you’re dead, you pretty much have to give up your demands about boundaries and personal space. Just understand, I didn’t die because I was too lazy to live. I didn’t die because I wanted to punish my family. And no matter how much I slag my parents, don’t get the idea that I hate them. Yes, for a while I hung around, watching my mom hunched over her notebook computer, tapping the keys Control, Alt, and L to lock the door of my bedroom in Rome, my room in Athens, all my rooms around the world. She keyboarded to close all my drapes after that, and turn down the air-conditioning and activate the electrostatic air filtration so not even dust would settle on my dolls and clothes and stuffed animals. It simply makes sense that I should miss my parents more than they miss me, especially when you consider that they only loved me for thirteen years while I loved them for my entire life. Forgive me for not sticking around longer, but I don’t want to be dead and just watching everybody while I chill rooms, flicker the lights, and pull the drapes open and shut. I don’t want to be simply a voyeur.
No, it’s not fair, but what makes earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it should feel like Heaven. Earth is earth. Dead is dead. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. It won’t help the situation for you to get all upset.
Revue de presse
Praise for Damned:
"As gleefully, vividly, hilariously obscene as you'd expect. . . . Irreverent and hugely entertaining." —NPR
"Brilliant. . . . Palahniuk's descriptions of hell are inspired, crafted with great comic flair. . . . A winning and funny book." —The Washington Post
"Hilarious. . . . The Judy Blume book from hell, just as Mr. Palahniuk intended." —The New York Times
"When it comes to drawing up a vision of hell, there are few American writers better suited to the job than Chuck Palahniuk." —Los Angeles Times
"Damned is gross, sick, nasty, silly, all the things you want from the merry madman of American letters, Chuck Palahniuk. How can you not be instantly transfixed by an opening like this?: 'Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. I'm just now arrived here, in Hell, but it's not my fault except for maybe dying from an overdose of marijuana.' And so begins the kind of goofy, but hypnotically endearing tale of a 13-year-old girl who, completely lost in life, finally starts to discover herself in Palahniuk's demented version of the afterlife....With Damned, [he] opens the fire hose to full bore again, stripping away the veneer on American society and showing us the yucky parts we don't want to see."—Chris Talbot, AP
"[T]horoughly original...satiric and horrifying, enough so you'll want to repent after you read."—Christian DuChateau, CNN
"Some Fight Club trademarks--youthful disaffection, violence, gross-out humor, a dystopic setting, cultural satire as an extreme sport, a decent helping of third-act pathos--can be seen in...Damned. Even prepubescent Madison Spencer, the protagonist of Damned, has traits that could be seen as Tyler Durden-esque. She's disaffected from society (i.e., those still alive), she kicks serious butt and is a cultural critic who becomes an unlikely leader....It's hard to pitch the broadly satirical Damned as a useful replacement narrative of life after death, but it's a rollicking adventure of Swiftian proportions, a Valleyfair of the Underworld that, incidentally, shows an overweight teenage girl bringing Satan himself down a peg."—Claude Peck, Minneapolis Star-Tribune
"Damned is typical of Palahniuk's work: a scathing satire that is unfiltered, caustic and smart....[His] descriptions of hell are priceless."—Rege Behe, Pittsburgh Tribune Review
"Even just its first few chapters reveal several layers of satiric humor, social commentary, Grand Guignol violence and heartbreaking insight....The narrator's blend of snark, precocious wit and unconcealed vulnerability and need is a combination as refreshing as the book is hard to put down."—Bill O'Driscoll, Pittsburgh City Paper
Détails sur le produit
Souhaitez-vous compléter ou améliorer les informations sur ce produit ? Ou faire modifier les images?
|
En savoir plus sur l'auteur
Découvrez des livres, informez-vous sur les écrivains, lisez des blogs d'auteurs et bien plus encore.
Dans ce livre
(En savoir plus)
Parcourir et rechercher une autre édition de ce livre.
Parcourir et rechercher une autre édition de ce livre.
Quels sont les autres articles que les clients achètent après avoir regardé cet article?
Commentaires en ligne
Commentaires client les plus utiles
Par Justine Senior
Format:Broché|Achat authentifié par Amazon
I have not received this yet. Is it coming in the mail? I do not know. Please do let me know.
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com:
3.5 étoiles sur 5
197 commentaires
63 internautes sur 68 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile
4.0 étoiles sur 5
A Stroll Through Hell
18 octobre 2011
Par William Kennedy
- Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié|Achat authentifié par Amazon
Chuck Palahniuk's books just keep getting weirder and weirder. I read and enjoy all of his novels, some more than others. "Pygmy" was a strange experiment, but unique and compelling nonetheless. "Tell-All" was a fun and enjoyable romp through the golden age of Hollywood, although it never quite became what it could have been.
And now, here is "Damned," a journey through hell (literally) with a sharp tongued and lovable young woman named Madison who died from...you'll have to read to find out, and it's not a marijuana overdose.
Frankly, this book is about as strange and bizarre as they come. The underworld is depicted as a place of grotesque monsters with lakes of sperm and mountains of toenail clippings. There were times when I thought this book was completely unclassifiable in any genre, forcing a new one to be invented. Afterlife Black Comedy.
"Damned," at its core, is a satire, and Chuck is at his best in skewering the affluent Hollywood lifestyle. Madison's parents are a movie star and a real estate mogul/business man who adopt children from war torn countries for the PR.
More importantly, in my opinion, is the writing, and Chuck breaks free from whatever has bound him over the last couple years and writes with an eloquence not seen since...well, maybe ever. Palahniuk has a very distinctive voice in his writing, all of his fans have gotten used to it, and look forward to it with each new book. But with "Damned," there is something more, a careful attention paid to craft more than story. The sentences flow artfully in Madison's voice and bring her to life with all her hopefulness and intelligence.
"Damned," is not a great book in the sense that it's a new classic, but I think it is a step in the right direction for Chuck. The story is just weird, but the way he tells it is what makes it such a fun read.
It's okay for books to be both fun and well written.
And now, here is "Damned," a journey through hell (literally) with a sharp tongued and lovable young woman named Madison who died from...you'll have to read to find out, and it's not a marijuana overdose.
Frankly, this book is about as strange and bizarre as they come. The underworld is depicted as a place of grotesque monsters with lakes of sperm and mountains of toenail clippings. There were times when I thought this book was completely unclassifiable in any genre, forcing a new one to be invented. Afterlife Black Comedy.
"Damned," at its core, is a satire, and Chuck is at his best in skewering the affluent Hollywood lifestyle. Madison's parents are a movie star and a real estate mogul/business man who adopt children from war torn countries for the PR.
More importantly, in my opinion, is the writing, and Chuck breaks free from whatever has bound him over the last couple years and writes with an eloquence not seen since...well, maybe ever. Palahniuk has a very distinctive voice in his writing, all of his fans have gotten used to it, and look forward to it with each new book. But with "Damned," there is something more, a careful attention paid to craft more than story. The sentences flow artfully in Madison's voice and bring her to life with all her hopefulness and intelligence.
"Damned," is not a great book in the sense that it's a new classic, but I think it is a step in the right direction for Chuck. The story is just weird, but the way he tells it is what makes it such a fun read.
It's okay for books to be both fun and well written.
10 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile
3.0 étoiles sur 5
Better than his past three books, but still not his best... (3.5 stars)
21 novembre 2011
Par Josh Gaines
- Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
The story is told by 13-year-old Madison Spencer, the chubby, unattractive daughter of billionaire parents who has found herself in Hell under the impression that she died from an overdose of marijuana. In the manner of Judy Blume, each chapter begins with a short 'prayer' or journal entry that always begins: "Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison." In her trek through the Underworld, she meets a group of other eccentric stereotype-ish teens; a Jock, a Nerd, a Hot-Girl and a Punk (think 'The Breakfast Club').
As the book went on, I realized that this is the first of Palahniuk's books to follow a sort of 'adventure' narrative. While in nearly every chapter Madison relays some part of her history on Earth to the reader, a good deal of the tale is a journey of sorts through the landscape of Hell. And who better to give us a vision of the Valley of the Damned than Mr. Palahniuk? His description of Hell is both disgusting and kind of hilarious, with miles of cages for victims (that are easily broken out of), stale candy and popcorn balls strewn everywhere across the ground, and a geography made of every unpleasant human emission imaginable (huge mounds of fingernail clippings, a desert of dandruff, an ocean of fecal matter, a river of steaming-hot saliva, etc.).
The author also entertainingly peppers the story with famous figures who have been condemned and their activities in the afterlife. Madison runs into more than a few tyrannous leaders, celebrities, serial killers and Presidents, among others. The demons are surprisingly apathetic beings who can be sometimes bribed with candy bars to make one's eternal damnation slightly more manageable. However the pagan gods of the ancient world who also roam the territory are somewhat more troublesome, snatching victims out of a cage and eating them alive limb for limb, the victim only to regenerate and await the next bodily terror to befall them.
One of Palahniuk's more humorous additions is a sort of MVD-of-the-soul where the dead can make an appeal for their eternal state. But of course, it's Hell, so the clerks are demons and the paperwork could literally take forever to process.
Madison is a somewhat flat character and the fact that she is a 13-year-old dead girl is only slightly tapped into as far as her voice. However, the book is entertaining and has a surprising amount of ponderous material regarding life and death and eternity. And as always with Palahniuk, a satisfying amount of heavy satire on the human condition, specifically on the absurdity of Americans and the wealthy. Palahniuk also never fails to 'do his homework' and interweaves a good deal of interesting factual information into his stories, in this case it was mostly regarding famously evil people and the origins of obscure demons and pagan gods. Some may see this as just filler material, but for some reason I always enjoy it, and I think he includes it in a relevant way.
I can say I enjoyed Damned a good deal more than Chuck's past three works, Tell-All, Pygmy and Snuff. This is the closest he's come in a while to 'darker' material, which is what I've felt he's always been best at, with the satire being a complimentary element rather than the focus. And the man no doubt has quite an imagination, even if twisted at times. Even in his lesser works, there are always moments where you're thinking 'Where the heck does he get this stuff?!?'
Overall I'd give it a 3.5 out of 5, and would recommend it if... you're in the mood for something weird and honestly kind of gross.
As the book went on, I realized that this is the first of Palahniuk's books to follow a sort of 'adventure' narrative. While in nearly every chapter Madison relays some part of her history on Earth to the reader, a good deal of the tale is a journey of sorts through the landscape of Hell. And who better to give us a vision of the Valley of the Damned than Mr. Palahniuk? His description of Hell is both disgusting and kind of hilarious, with miles of cages for victims (that are easily broken out of), stale candy and popcorn balls strewn everywhere across the ground, and a geography made of every unpleasant human emission imaginable (huge mounds of fingernail clippings, a desert of dandruff, an ocean of fecal matter, a river of steaming-hot saliva, etc.).
The author also entertainingly peppers the story with famous figures who have been condemned and their activities in the afterlife. Madison runs into more than a few tyrannous leaders, celebrities, serial killers and Presidents, among others. The demons are surprisingly apathetic beings who can be sometimes bribed with candy bars to make one's eternal damnation slightly more manageable. However the pagan gods of the ancient world who also roam the territory are somewhat more troublesome, snatching victims out of a cage and eating them alive limb for limb, the victim only to regenerate and await the next bodily terror to befall them.
One of Palahniuk's more humorous additions is a sort of MVD-of-the-soul where the dead can make an appeal for their eternal state. But of course, it's Hell, so the clerks are demons and the paperwork could literally take forever to process.
Madison is a somewhat flat character and the fact that she is a 13-year-old dead girl is only slightly tapped into as far as her voice. However, the book is entertaining and has a surprising amount of ponderous material regarding life and death and eternity. And as always with Palahniuk, a satisfying amount of heavy satire on the human condition, specifically on the absurdity of Americans and the wealthy. Palahniuk also never fails to 'do his homework' and interweaves a good deal of interesting factual information into his stories, in this case it was mostly regarding famously evil people and the origins of obscure demons and pagan gods. Some may see this as just filler material, but for some reason I always enjoy it, and I think he includes it in a relevant way.
I can say I enjoyed Damned a good deal more than Chuck's past three works, Tell-All, Pygmy and Snuff. This is the closest he's come in a while to 'darker' material, which is what I've felt he's always been best at, with the satire being a complimentary element rather than the focus. And the man no doubt has quite an imagination, even if twisted at times. Even in his lesser works, there are always moments where you're thinking 'Where the heck does he get this stuff?!?'
Overall I'd give it a 3.5 out of 5, and would recommend it if... you're in the mood for something weird and honestly kind of gross.
13 internautes sur 15 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile
4.0 étoiles sur 5
Much better than his last few books.
8 novembre 2011
Par strwbrrystar
- Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Relié
Maybe it's because my expectations of Palahniuk's work have been lowered so much after reading Snuff and Pygmy (didn't even bother with Tell All), but I consider this a decent book. Not his best, but I enjoyed it more than most parts of Haunted. I would give it 3.5 stars. Won't be throwing this one away, at least.
›
Allez sur Amazon.com pour voir l'ensemble des 197 commentaires
3.5 étoiles sur 5
Ces commentaires ont-ils été utiles ?
Dites-le-nous
Listmania!
Rechercher des articles similaires par rubrique
Commentaires
Souhaitez-vous compléter ou améliorer les informations sur ce produit ? Ou faire modifier les images?
|
