Sebastian Horsley (1962–2010)

I'm fairly compulsive about finishing books that I'm reading, but even at the halfway point, I'm just not interested in this. (And that's even after taking the book with me on several long-ish train trips, with no other reading material at hand--I think I napped instead.)

One problem is an entirely personal one, and to which I will freely admit: I'm not a huge fan of the memoir genre. Other people's lives, no matter how much crazy nonsense has transpired in them, hold less of a fascination for me than the stuff that people conjure up. I will say it loud, say it proud: gimme fiction.

But the other problem is that Horsley crams an average of three quips into every paragraph. The genuinely funny remarks, the really witty and Wildean observations, are diluted by his insistence on throwing everything at the wall and hoping that something, anything sticks.

I can see how other readers would dig it, and I suppose that the strange mix of bravado and insecurity that comes across in the prose conveys something about the performative/emotional space of the dandy figure, but I can't force myself to power through to the end of this one.… (mer)

I had no knowledge of anything substantive that Sebastian Horsley had done before I read his memoir and really, does one have to accomplish anything in life to write a misery memoir? What had Mary Karr done when she wrote The Liar’s Club. Sometimes these sorts of memoirs exist merely because it is interesting reading about the horrific lives other people lead, and there is a certain shock-element to Horsley’s memoir. He is the car wreck. But instead of not wanting to look away, you want to look because you want to see what else the dandy will do for your attention. In a sense, it is less a car wreck than watching a dancing monkey. A dancing monkey with fabulous hair. And to his credit, Horsley does not claim to be much else.

Hell, I take back what I said above. Don’t save yourself the time. I say read it. Read this book. About page 75, you’ll grow tired, but dancing monkeys need money, too. And when you read it, wear jeans. And sneakers. If you are a woman, no make-up. If you are a man, squirt cheez whiz from a can straight into your mouth with every page turn. Do the cheez whiz part if you are a woman too. Then, when you are finished, take a picture of yourself naked and send it to him as a thanks for all his hard work in the field of the arts. Realize that no matter how fat, ugly, and casually dressed you may be, by sucking down that cheez whiz and photographing your dimpled ass, you have still contributed more to the art of the Western world than Horsley. And aren’t smug, unearned delusions of grandeur the best revenge? Seb would agree, I think.

Read the rest of the review here: http://ireadoddbooks.com/?p=353… (mer)