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Summary: Study Questions for Neal Pollack's Collection
Review: Yes, you should buy this book. Sure the premise wears a little thin, but that doesn't happen until a month or so after you've finished the book, so you'll get more than your money's worth. The same thing was true of Woody Allen's early slender volumes, after all, although admittedly those pieces didn't begin to wear thin until well after college.But in this age of lost privacy and foregone responsibility, in which writers gladly shed their skin to pay the price of fame's ticket, and the finger has been removed farther from the button than Musil ever dreamed, we should ask ourselves about Pollack's literary persona, briefly, and only half-seriously. So: Genuine literary device, or cloak to mask an indefensible cynicism? As an excuse for shameless self-promotion: lighthearted, or disingenuine? Reply here, in the form of a review, of course. But buy the book already. How can you answer these questions for yourself if you don't buy the book? Plus, Neal could use the support. For although we wish Neal the very best, there's every possibility this book will mark the apex of his fame: His next project is a CD of musically-accompanied poems.
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Summary: Meh...
Review: When I first started reading The Neal Pollack Anthology, I was really into it. I recommended it to everyone I was reading (as I sheepishly hid the fleshy cover behind my hand), laughed a bit, especially at the time line, study guide, pictures, and oher "extras," and thought it was pretty hysterical, especially "I Am Friends With a Working Class Black Woman." But after a while, I stopped laughing and recommending it to people, deciding that, on a whole, the book is pretty "meh" (say the word aloud to know what I mean) and exactly as a three star book should be: good, but inconsistant. His Heraldo-like antics are funny for a while - yeah, he sleeps with hot, ethnic women, yes, he went to Ivies, uh huh, he's really old - but after a while it gets spread really thin over 200 odd pages. I definately agree with the reviewer who compares the literary refrences to Simpsons allegories. When Pollack mentions Norman Mailer for the upteenth time, you think, "yeah, he knows a lot about books, in a smug, McSweeneys sort of way..." (and don't get me wrong, I love McS) "...but I feel like I'd really have better spent my time reading just a few stories and then abandoning the book to read some real Mailer."
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Summary: Quirky and brilliant
Review: I loved this book.
This is really post-graduate level humor. The myth of the Great White Author is fertile ground. He's the king of snarky, needle-sharp pokes. As it happens, great writers usually have a well-tuned sense of humor and they'd probably all get the joke. Parts of this book made me collapse with laughter. That doesn't happen often enough.
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Summary: The REAL facts about Eggers rumor, plus a review.
Review: First of all, about the writer. I have read reviews that state that Neal Pollack is actually a pen name of Dave Eggers. I want to tell you once and for all: Neal Pollack is a real person. I talked to him, and as a matter of fact his mother is my Spanish teacher. So, stop speculating! What could be said about this book? At first glimpse, it is a collection of mostly dirty, related short stories about a writer with an oversized ego and his sexual and political escapades. From page one, it is evident that these are some of the funniest short stories to be read; with gut wrenching laughs coming from all sorts of double entendres. But the deeper you read into the book, the more you appreciate the underlying satire. While in some parts it is hard to tell what is being satirized, at least for younger readers like myself, other satire is bitingly clear and adds to the enjoyment of the book. The satire is what shows that this is a carefully thought out work, rather then a book based solely on sex jokes. So, if you are a part of the intelligent crowd, you will enjoy this book for the satire, and if you have never been deep in analyzing literature, then you will love this book for the sex jokes, although there will be people who would hate this book and be offended. Read at your own risk.
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Summary: spinal tap for modern lit
Review: 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
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Summary: Good, but the same old McSweeney's
Review: 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.
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Summary: Less Than Impressed
Review: This is not a good work. I gave it a shot because I love Dave Egger and most of the other McSweeney's stuff, but Pollack fails miserably. He is pretty imaginative and original, and a few spots of the book were funny. But overall I would say save your money; it's pretty awful.
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Summary: Profundity, Profundity, I have found thee, dear Profundity
Review: I can't read no more! His words are too beautiful. His literary vision consorts with the gods! I can only imagine the entire population of the greater Cosmologic area find themselves imbued with his heavenly goods and turns away in awe. Yes, the profundity blinds and pleasures...hurts so good! The only way to read his words without constant tears is to wear sunglasses with built in P.P. (profundity protection). Thank you, Father.
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Summary: Hysterically ridiculous egocentrism
Review: I loved this book. I laughed out loud. I snickered at every other word. Neal Pollack's pretention is sarcastic, funny, and agnonizingly critical of first person journalism. He mocks the overeducated who pretend to 'relate' to the rest of us, he speaks to the egocentrist in all writers...and he does it in the most clever of ways. The best part is, despite the claim he makes of being "the greatest American Writer" this is Neal Pollack's first book...which of course is the heart of the joke. Anyone who has been innundated by the 'Greats' of American Literature will appreciate Neal Pollack's take. He mocks the entire industry in a self effacing manner, without actually degrading the work of any 'american authors'. Get it. Read it. Laugh.
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Summary: What the ????????
Review: This is what passes for humorous writing these days? Pollack has some cleverness--but not much else. He's a poseur, and his pose isn't even original. The only way to entertain yourself while reading this tedious and pretentious little book is to ask yourself, "Who is he trying to imitate in this piece?" Pollack is so unfunny that he makes Dave Barry look like S. J. Perelman. Pollack is is a run-of-the-mill McSweeney's narcissist. That he has fans--that people show up for his readings with intentions other than those of heckling him or shouting him down--is a distressing indication of how stupid the "hipster" reading public has become. The McSweeney's publishing operation is little more than a vanity-press outfit.
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