Vernon God Little

My flatmate excitedly told me to read this particular book, claiming that it was 'dynamite'. However, after reading it, I have to say that I completely disagree.

This book failed to capture my interest from the very beginning. The story seemed to lack depth and the characters were not well-developed. I found myself constantly losing focus and struggling to get through each page.

In my opinion, it is not a book that I would recommend to others. I simply did not enjoy the reading experience. There are so many other great books out there that are much more engaging and worthwhile. It's a shame that this one did not live up to my flatmate's expectations.

I would suggest looking for other options if you're in search of a good read.

Hmmmm, well, er...bit hard to pin down, this one...

Vernon Little is from a small Texan town called Martirio. His best friend has just committed a heinous act of shooting up the school and then turning the gun on himself. With the culprit dead, the entire town, the cops, and the media all turn their attention to Vernon. They've already made up their minds that he is also guilty, as it seems to fit better with the narrative that is playing out on their TVs, where they themselves have now become small-screen stars too.

At equal turns, this story is both compelling and frustrating. It almost worked for me because Vernon has a brilliantly bitter voice that really draws you in. However, as the story progresses towards the climax, the more ridiculous things become, the less I found myself enjoying it. There were moments when the plot seemed to veer off into absurdity, and it became difficult to suspend my disbelief. Nevertheless, there were also some redeeming qualities that kept me engaged until the end.

Now think hard. Really, really hard. That's what I constantly tell myself. But the truth is, I can't. I'm just too affected, or maybe it's impacted. I'm not even sure. All I know are these fucken waves. They bowl me over, send me tumbling head over fucken heels. They drown me and scrape me in the sand and salt that seek out all my old fucken wounds. Those waves fucken scour and sting. This is by far the hardest fucken book review I'll ever attempt to write. I know that much. I mean, fuck.

The first thing you need to understand is that Vernon God Little left me feeling pretty raw, emotionally speaking. The book fucken touched on something painful within me. It might not affect you in the same way, but it sure as hell did for me. And that's going to show in my review. If you don't think you can handle my rawness, you might as well just quit now and go back to watching Court TV or Doctor Fucken Phil or whatever the hell it is you do. Turn up the fucken volume so you can't hear this shit. The second thing is that it ain't all bad. This was also the funniest damn book I've read since A Confederacy of Dunces. The book ends well, and hopefully, so will this review.

This is the part I truly hate. It feels like fucken therapy with Dr. Goosens and his goddamn index finger. Pull down your drawers and spread your fucken cheeks. It's okay, I'm a psychologist, which means I'm also a medical doctor. The fuck you are. That's exit-only down there, motherfucker. But I gotta do it if I wanna make bail, you see. I know I'm gonna end up on one of those web sites. Old sick fuckers getting off on watching Goosens invade my personal space. But I can't run to Mexico. I gotta stick it out—no fucken pun intended. I gotta scream “I'm innocent!” before shit gets out of hand. So this is the part where I share my feelings. But as long as you don't pull out your finger and sniff it, we're gonna be okay here. Yes, we are.

Look, I've said this before and I'll say it again: I'm not on GoodReads to learn about books. I'm on GoodReads to learn about people. I read all you nice folks' reviews to learn about you... about how the book affected you... what it meant to you. I can learn about the fucken book anywhere. So what kind of asshole would I be if I didn't let you learn a little about me? So here I am. Fuck.

And it basically boils down to this one learning I took away from this book: we all have our own massacre. You included, that's right. You just don't fucken know it yet. It's there, either happening or waiting to happen. And you're hoping that if nobody sees it, then it ain't real. You're hoping that if you know it's going to happen but you don't tell nobody, then it ain't really going to happen. But it's going to fucken happen. And it's going to be fucken real. It sure as hell ain't your fault, though everybody else sure as hell thinks it is. They look at you sideways, the way people do, but you jackrabbit them and they look away all embarrassed. They ask you the same goddamn questions, and it doesn't matter how many times you say “I didn't do it.” And here's another learning I had from this book: all those motherfuckers will control you as long as you let them. But you gotta shift the power-dime in your favor. I ain't gonna tell you how to do it, though. You gotta read the book for yourself, see?

So what about me, you're asking? Am I ever gonna get to the fucken point? Fine. I've been putting it off until I made sure you knew that you had your own fucken massacre, too. And I ain't looking for no damn sympathy, just so you know. My massacre is my pain. Physical pain. Several years ago, I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. Oh that you say? That shit's not a real disease. That shit's an excuse for lazy fuckers who don't wanna work and like to take prescription painkillers. Well, fuck you. You don't know fucken shit. I bust my ass to provide for my family and run a tight household, and I do it in pain every fucken day. And you think I like taking the hard pain meds? You think that's fun? Well, if that's what you think, then you got your own fucken problems cause it ain't no fun. Nearly every day, I have to choose between being in pain or being high. I'd really rather be neither, but most days that isn't one of the choices. I got my number-2 pencil and my scantron, and I look to fill in the bubble for “none of the above,” but it ain't there. That ain't no damn fun at all. And like Vernon, I get blamed for my massacre; sometimes I feel like I'm fucken on trial for it. But from my point of view, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong fucken time.

But I told you it would end well, didn't I? So enough of my fucken problems. This book is full of some really funny shit, you know? I mean, like, did you think Mr. Dee Bee Cee Pee-Air could write a book about murdered teenagers, betrayal, and pedophilia without throwing in some humor? Who the fuck would want to read that? So Vernon God Little is fucken full of humor. Things I never woulda thought about. Like the difference between fucking and fuckin and fucken. There's three different kinds of people right there. Or like the things you can tell about a woman by the kind of panties she's wearing. Like where she's from and where she's going, if you get my meaning. Oh, and how about the way Vernon's whole town is fixated on the Bar-B-Chew Barn? I mean, are you fucken kidding me?

So, look here. The book ends well, this review ends well, and I just have to believe life ends well. I know there are plenty of examples of life not ending well for decent folks. But there are also plenty of examples of things turning out fine for folks who treat people nice and keep their noses out of trouble. And I can't speak for you, but that's where I choose to place my hope. Now, let's talk some more about ladies' panties...

This was.... really weird.

At first, when I picked up this book, I was almost shocked by its stupidity. It seemed so far-fetched and absurd that I could hardly believe it. And yet, there was still something about it that made it sort of believable, in a strange way. I really didn't like it at all. In fact, I had this urge to just punch all the characters in the face, as hard as I could. And that's definitely not a good feeling to have while reading a book.

But then, something strange happened. In the last 50 pages or so, the story took a turn for the even more absurd and really unbelievable. It was like the author had gone completely off the rails. But, oddly enough, this is what actually saved the book for me.

Normally, when I finish a book, I would just put it away and never think about it again. But this time, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I started to understand what the "bigger story" was that the author was trying to tell. And I know that there have been other authors who have tried to do something similar. But the way this author told it, in my opinion, was an entirely new and unique way to present it.

The statement "just not really for me but I'm sure I missed the point" is quite interesting. It implies that there is something that the person didn't fully understand or appreciate. Maybe it was a particular activity, a concept, or a situation. It could be that they had initial expectations that weren't met, but at the same time, they are open to the idea that they might have overlooked something important. This kind of self-awareness is valuable as it allows for potential growth and learning. Instead of simply dismissing the thing as not being for them, they are willing to consider that there might be more to it. It could lead to further exploration and a deeper understanding in the future.

A lot went awry with this first novel. However, the most exasperating literary transgression, in my opinion, was the manner in which the not-quite-authentic-yet-still-close-enough-to-be-amusing Texas dialect eluded Pierre and devolved into sheer gibberish. When you combine the hyperbolic pidgin Texas vernacular with a cheerfully misogynist and thoroughly unlikable narrator, you end up with sentences such as this: "I surf her upholstery with my nose, map her sticky heem along glimmering edges to the panty-leg, where the tang sharpens like slime-acid chocolate, stings, bounces me back from her poon."

Ew. Also, what on earth?

Alas, it only gets worse. Picture The Chocolate War if it were lengthier, more inflated with pretentious ideas of its own literary worth, more anti-feminist, and centered around a school shooting. Yikes indeed.

I truly have no idea what was going through the judges' minds when they awarded the Booker Prize in 2003 to Vernon God Little. It's not that the book isn't, on occasion, mildly amusing. However, it reeks of being a gimmicky one-trick pony. And that trick, to be honest, isn't all that great.

The subject matter is indeed serious - a high school shooting, a favorite pastime among American teenagers. But the style is humorous. The author seems to think he can make his narrator, a Texan boy, seem authentic by having him say 'fucken' three times on every page. While Vernon Gregory Little might make a witty observation here and there, he generally comes across as a cartoon character. And the same goes for everyone else in this book - they are just a bunch of poorly drawn clichés. It's like imagining a choreographed reality TV show taken to the extreme and then having someone create a parody of it. That's exactly what Vernon God Little is.

As I mentioned, it could all be mildly entertaining. But then DBC Pierre inserts those serious bits. Vernon's friends have all been shot, and he is accused of murdering them and facing Death Row. And then DBC Pierre expects me to empathize, which is as absurd as if the South Park creators expected me to cry every time they kill Kenny.

Maybe it's just me. Because some people seem to think it was gripping and powerful. I just didn't get it. I thought it was trite.

But at least, given that Vernon moves between Texas and Mexico, I got to cook some delicious Tex-Mex junk food. And what could be more Tex-Mex than nachos? Here they are, served with homemade guacamole and salsa (http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/...). I think I need to stop reading so many American books before I do some serious damage to my cholesterol levels.

For a Booker Prize winner who has been blurbed by Stephen King, Joyce Carol Oates, and Jonathan Lethem, this particular work doesn't seem to have achieved the status of a household name.

Perhaps it's because this pitch-black Menippean satire is a difficult sell. Maybe it's due to the frequency with which our narrator talks about pooping his pants. Personally, I wasn't fazed by either of these aspects. However, a much bigger flaw is that it doesn't remain true to Vernon's voice. In some spots, it veers off into bad beat poetry (the sex scene, oh my God!). In other places, it indulges in turns of phrase that are in no way true to the character but which the author couldn't resist inserting.

But (and this is a fairly significant but) when the voice is on point, it's downright alchemical, as if possessed by the spirit of a teenage Texan loner. It really could have been a contender.

Overall, while there are some notable issues with the book, there are also moments of great potential that make it a work worth considering.