More of the same

I'm quilling this from Boston. Didn't expect that, did you?

On the plane I burned through the last 200-odd pages of Diary, which was good, but a little half-baked. It's kind of a mystery--that is, it's intended as a mystery. It falls short at the end because, as you notice yourself running out of pages, characters just basically begin spilling their guts.. It's Palahniuk, so the language is gorgeous and trashy simultaneously. High-minded topics are treated with juvenile vulgarity. That's what he does, it's what makes him stand out.

As much as he stands apart from other writers, however, he never really stands apart from himself. He's kind of a gimmicky writer. Often, the gimmicks and repetition work to amazing effect. Here, they don't as much.

Similarly, I'm starting to have a hard time distinguishing one Palahniuk hero from another. Misty Walmott here is more or less Victor Mancini from Choke but more naive. She's the narrator from Fight Club, but instead of achieving something in order to gain control of her life, the act of achievement ultimately controls her.

Variations on a theme.

His narration here is goddamned brilliant, flawlessly interweaving the 2nd and 3rd person. Anytime you can address the reader directly, make him or her part of the story, it's never wasted. Palahniuk here makes us a comatose attempted suicide. Our muscles have contracted until our head almost reaches around to our ass. Our teeth are bared. The chance of awakening is nil.

This is our wife's diary. Good stuff.

His lyricism too is fantastic. Perfectly crafted. Dense and lush descriptions go ripping by. Palahniuk has a genius for bombarding you with sensory information--pummelling you with it--but in a way that just reads like casual conversation. This isn't Moby Dick, he writes with purpose and drive, and thus reads really fast.

Fast, yes, but this time, the snap wasn't there, the shock value wasn't there. He's not as incisive nor as condemnatory. He's not as quick to pass judgment. Ultimately, redemption for Misty comes too easily.

It is a much more ruminative book than I've seen from him, which is good, in a way. Palahniuk discusses Plato and Jung at length, and ties it together in a way that almost makes this a philosophical whodunit to rival Robert Pirsig, call it Platonism and the Art of Watercolor Paintenance.

Except everything is far more cursory. And, as I mentioned, it just doesn't pop.

You can say something important and say it with verve. Palahniuk knows that better than anyone..

Palahniuk is never a dumb read, I always walk away feeling enriched. I usually, though, have more fun in the process.