A self-deprecating memoir of goofy awkwardness that I thought I would like a lot more than I actually did. I put this down after the first 3 chapters and never really felt any significant urge to pick it up again.

Tiresome memoir of not particularly much that makes stabs at recognizing the author's own repulsiveness as a human being, but cannot escape the limits of his own behavior. Grasping, judgmental misogynist who seems to have no interest in interacting with women other than as quasi-loathed masturbatory objects. *Every single female character* with the exception of the author's mother and sister and one advertising professional he addresses as a "stupid cunt" is introduced with a description of her breasts. I wish I were exaggerating. Awkward, unliked Lad Mag writer who believes himself above what he produces, while embodying the very worst of it.

A thin story inflated into more than it is. Memoir of ghostwriting with occasionally fussy language. Author's forays into her memories of language feel inserted, choreographed to add a false spine of structure to this simple memoir of a slightly difficult working relationship with a flamboyant character.

Very interesting exploration of friendship & how people move apart. Many of the authors seemed less than willing to consider their own culpability, giving no more than lip service to their self-absorbtion or cruelties. Most irritating was woman furious @ her friends for being pregnant & ever talking about it or not marking her projected due date months later w/flowers. Most interesting was back-to-back essays from 2 friends w/differing perspectives on same drifting apart.

Funny, self-deprecating and hopeful. Rather than tips or moralizing disguised in preachy memoir, this is a likeable yarn about one woman's slow transformation of her life and personality, not just her weight. A large shift that is written to feel smaller, cozy & straightforward, avoiding the more traditional route of making one's personal battle an epic.

Account of a self-made obsession with a therapist. Incredibly overblown and absurdly claustrophobic within the author's own overheated & self-obsessed imagination. What happens when your overwrought teenager stays that way.

Very much like Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men in the hunt across a barren landscape, the relentless calm villain. Certain elements of the setup (the kinky funeral director playing w/corpses) are a bit fussy and overblown, but a quick and absorbing read. A good between-titles palate-cleanser of a book.

I can see why people like Dean Koontz -- he's a good storyteller, knows how to build tension. But he has weird bursts of overwriting, repeats not only pet phrases but whole concepts, and clearly comes from the trenches and traditions of horror. Can't resist taking things over the top.

Engaging but pointless and flip. Snobbery about DC girls and people not as "hip" as the author is obvious. One gets the sense her reversal near the end was choreographed rather than naturally arrived at through real reflection.

Interesting enough, but Bronson's personality permeates and his personal beliefs color the narrative. It's a bit cloying and a bit surface.

Crisp and spare, snow on the plains. The relationships are what is expected, but carefully & sharply sketched. A stark, crystalline book that watches its characters honestly, full of sympathy & judgment. Scattered through with those little moments or phrases that catch your breath in your throat for just a second. A book that's all winter.