Sunday, April 20, 2014

This Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore: On Breaking Up With Morrissey’s Autobiography

At first blush, you would think we’d be the perfect pair.  Me: a bookish Smiths and Morrissey fan, with a mirthless disposition and a jones for buying books on import.  Autobiography by Morrissey: a book by Morrissey about Morrissey.  Really, we should have eloped to Switzerland and have had miserable book babies by now (that makes absolutely no sense, I know, but you know what I mean); but alas, alack, anon, it wasn’t meant to be.

This.  Book.  Is.  Terrible.  TERRIBLE!

Try as I might, I couldn’t get more than a dozen pages in the book before I developed a serious migraine, a migraine of the “Oh, crap!—I forgot to take my meds this morning!” variety.  For starters, it appears as though Moz has an aversion to complete sentences and a morbid infatuation with circuitous Germanic-style ones.  What.  The.  Fuck.  

I am willing to forgiven quirky grammar if I am reading James Joyce or Emily Dickinson.  You know what, I will even allow Kafka and Mann their insane run on sentences.  But I cannot, nay, I will not, stand the indignity of watching one of my idols prattle on like he’s writing a LiveJournal entry in 2003 and not a long-awaited autobiography.  In fact, I would have rather the book to have never been written or be written in Laotian than be readily available . . . but with an irritating style that rejects the sacrosanct conventions of written English. 

This is like finding out that the person you have been dating in an unashamed Beliber.  I may need to make an emergency appointment with my therapist. *sob*

In the interim, I have picked up a copy of Tony Fletchers A Light That Never Goes Out, a more objective and readable version of The Smith’s story and I’ve added it to my TBR.  And Autobiography?  Well, I’ll be using that as a décor item for the foreseeable future.

And to think it all started out so well.

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