Chuck

First, I still don’t have internet in the house, and I’ve been really busy. However, I’m going to try to transfer some of the stuff I’ve been writing at home to this website because it keeps piling up and I like to make people read my writing. Lucky you.

Now, several months ago I promised everyone a review of Chuck Klosterman’s book “Killing Yourself to Live.” Here we go:

Chuck Klosterman isn’t a modern day Jack Kerouac, he isn’t even close to Hemmingway, and I wouldn’t even consider comparing him to James Joyce except in the most distant and obtuse way. I’m sure the ivory tower of academic elitists who decide who sits in the pantheon of ‘great writers’ of the English language will look at Klosterman and snicker. Guys like Harold Bloom no doubt think that Chuck is an idiot.

They are totally wrong.

Chuck Klosterman is a zen master of non-fiction. His writing (at least in this book) takes place completely within his culture and mindset. That isn’t to say that Chuck doesn’t draw upon influences from other periods or cultures, but he doesn’t really seem to think about them. For a book about a bunch of rock stars who died young, this is remarkable.

If asked, I’d describe this book as comedic, nostalgic, and tragic, but always immersed in the now. Klosterman weaves his personal relationships with women into a narrative that you could be fooled into thinking had something to do with rock music. I’m not saying Klosterman is David Sedaris crossed with Dave Barry, but that isn’t as far off as you might think.

The bottom line is that I only know of a handful of living authors who don’t suck, Klosterman falls into that category.