Chuck Palahniuk Complete Collection of books published today [13 pcs.]



Chuck Palahniuk Complete Collection of books published today [13 pcs.]
Publisher: Doubleday | 287 pages | 1994-2010 | File type: PDF | 9 mb

No amount of bad reviews will stop a Palahniuk fan from buying one of his books. I oughta know. I’m one of those fans. I’m the first to admit that Palahniuk is a one-trick pony, but let’s face it, it’s a pretty good trick. There are times where it has worn thin, and others where it has struck gold. Essentially, Chuck (may I call you Chuck?) takes a few premises, milks the gastric juices out of them, and tries to blend a cocktail with a little social or psychological merit.
SNUFF, a brisk biopsy of porn, has all the trademark Palahniuk panache, but very little of his elusive elan. Chuck’s not what you would call very nice to most of his characters, but buried under vivid piles of meat and blood, they still have hearts, and souls, and yens. Chuck shows us their voids, and whether or not they fill them, somehow we still manage to care. There are lots of voids in SNUFF, and they get filled in gruesome and graphic detail, but none of them are very much other than raw, pointless wounds.




Tell-All
Publisher: Doubleday | ISBN: 0385526350 | 287 pages | 2010 | PDF
There’s just no other possible explanation. Tell-All cannot be written by the same Chuck Palahniuk who wrote the brilliant novels Fight Club, Choke, and Survivor. Alien abduction, demonic possession, mind control, something. Anything. I refuse to accept depreciation of creativity and talent as a viable option. That being said, let me explain. Slightly Commendable:
– There’s a somewhat amusing span of three pages that describes Katherine’s attempt at adoption. Matching the correct shade of pink paint to a baby’s skin is of the utmost importance.
– Occasionally, the shock and awe Palahniuk loves so much is relevant and entertaining (although often overdone).




Snuff
Publisher: Anchor | ISBN: 0307275841 | 287 pages | 2009 | PDF
No amount of bad reviews will stop a Palahniuk fan from buying one of his books. I oughta know. I’m one of those fans. I’m the first to admit that Palahniuk is a one-trick pony, but let’s face it, it’s a pretty good trick. There are times where it has worn thin, and others where it has struck gold. Essentially, Chuck (may I call you Chuck?) takes a few premises, milks the gastric juices out of them, and tries to blend a cocktail with a little social or psychological merit.
SNUFF, a brisk biopsy of porn, has all the trademark Palahniuk panache, but very little of his elusive elan. Chuck’s not what you would call very nice to most of his characters, but buried under vivid piles of meat and blood, they still have hearts, and souls, and yens. Chuck shows us their voids, and whether or not they fill them, somehow we still manage to care. There are lots of voids in SNUFF, and they get filled in gruesome and graphic detail, but none of them are very much other than raw, pointless wounds. The story, about an aging porn star who wants to break records with a 600-man gang bang, grasps at a few emotional straws failed parents and failed dreams but never really holds on tightly enough for any of it to matter. It’s very much a “going through the motions” installment. The motions themselves are alright, I suppose, although some of them are bizarrely out of place. Chuck’s books are, if anything, catalogues of the grotesque and the arcane, but he usually manages to find some way, eloquently or not, to tie them all together. Here, some of it works (the macabre celebrity factoids and emb
alment techniques), but some of it is just plain pointless (see the several pages devoted to prison tattoos). In fact, these little literary curios mostly get in the way. Chuck sets almost the entire story in the basement of the studio set where the film (World Whore Three) is being filmed. But even this limited scenery is very vaguely described. And the five main characters that compose the story (Mr. 600, Mr. 137, Mr. 72, the “wrangler,” and the starlet) are equally vague personalities, people who stutter alike, who regurgitate odd-ball trivia at the drop of a hat, and who in spite of their gaping holes and yens don’t inspire much in the way of either sympathy or concern. Mostly, they give Chuck a chance to come up with as many goofy porn movie titles he can, or the opportunity to utilize every single euphemism he can find or think up for the word “masturbator.” It’s not a bad book, given what most Palahniuk fans will want or expect, and parts of it are downright hilarious. It’s slimy, sick, and will teach you new and interesting ways to exfoliate your face (try cold, used coffee grounds). Unfortunately, that’s about it. For a book that deals with such fleshy concerns, it’s a shame Chuck didn’t try harder to get under the skin.


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