Less Than Zero

Behold, my least favorite book of the year so far. Unless I make some poor life choices or read the sequel to The Tattooist of Auschwitz for some reason, I don’t see myself reading something worse.

I mean it wasn’t hideous but nothing really happened until the last handful of pages. Usually I’m the first person to defend books with slow or basically non-existent plots if there are other reasons to enjoy it but this had no redeeming features for me, aside from the low page count and the fact it counts towards my reading challenge.

I wouldn’t recommend this book to anyone unless I read something very similar by accident and someone mentioned they really liked that very similar book. It was such an apathetic book, however, that I still prefer it to The Tattooist of Auschwitz but, get this, if I had to reread one of them I’d choose The Tattooist. I’d at least naively go into that one hoping that it might grow on me. With Less Than Zero there is literally less than zero hope of me ever feeling differently about it, I might dislike it more if I read it again. At least I wouldn’t be as bored rereading The Tattooist of Auschwitz.

If you want me to give a detailed and thorough description of the plot then you may disappointed to hear that my long version is the same as my short version, otherwise I’d have to copy and paste the entire book to make it longer.

The main character is some wealthy coked up white guy with a name that doesn’t surprise anyone. It might’ve been Trent or Justin, if it wasn’t I’m certain both names were in that book somewhere. Anyway, Whathisname spends the entire book in this apathetic druggy stupor, being possibly the least vile of all his “friends” (I use that term loosely) and definitely having the least exciting life of them all. It’s parties and drinking and drugs and I knew this going in. I don’t have an issue with that and I also understand what the author was aiming at, it’s one of those “deep” commentaries on the toxicity of society and it succeeded in highlighting that. It’s not meant to be a book you pick up for escapism or enjoyment and that honesty is why I don’t begrudge it. I just don’t ever want to read it or think about it again.

Author: Olive

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