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kyatic's Reviews (974)
See, here's the thing. I would not usually pick up a book with this cover, and I would have missed out on account of that bias. More than anything, this is the story of recovery from sexual abuse and the legacy of victim blaming. I've read a lot of romances recently, largely because I've been a bit down and they usually guarantee a happy ending (no pun intended), and I'm glad that I have. I used to assume that they were all light-hearted and avoided dealing with the weightier issues of literary fiction, but that's just not the case, and it's probably the misogynistic, patronising stereotype of romance fiction that led me to believe that. Glad to have been proven wrong.
I'm writing a story with an Anglo-Indian character set in a similar period to this one, so I'm reading as many books as I can which might be useful. I did not expect to read a somewhat explicit m/m murder mystery as part of that research, but it was a lot of fun, so no complaints.
Disclaimer: generally speaking, I do not think of Morrissey very much. I also do not think very much of him. He does not dwell constantly in my subconscious, singing self-righteously about vegetarian lifestyles from the corners of my mind, but whenever I happen to come across him in any way, I do sort of want to very gently punch him. Only gently, mind. And hey, I'm a fan of The Smiths. I just think that Morrissey is probably the kind of guy who you wouldn't want to sit next to in a pub. But that's fine. We can't all be pleasant people. I know I'm not.
So, with that disclaimer out of the way - that I am not a Morrissey fan, but neither do I want to brutally slaughter him with my bare hands and scatter his remains to the meat processing plant - I have some Things To Say about this book.
If you've ever heard of the infinite monkey theorem - that a monkey hitting random keys on a typewriter for an infinite length of time will inevitably end up typing the works of Shakespeare - then allow me to apply this theory in order to frame the experience of reading Autobiography by Morrissey (the half of it that I was able to read before I had to put it down and read something more palatable, that is).
Phase 1. The monkey sits at the typewriter. He flexes his hairy little knuckles, and begins to type. At first, he is barely able to form coherent sentences. He was top of his class in English, so it's a little more advanced than the 'ekrghkj5h6' expected by the scientists, but it isn't Shakespeare. He uses all the wrong words in all the wrong places, seemingly making up for his refusal to use all pronouns and articles by instead substituting monosyllabic words for five syllables; why say 'alone in the room' when 'Chamber. Solitude; imperceptible consciousness of loneliness between crumbling concrete quandrants' will do? The scientists are amazed at his loquaciousness and verbosity, but can barely read a paragraph of his output without a stiff drink.
Phase 2. The monkey has learnt how to use tenses and is now able to write a sentence without switching from past to present in the blink of a weary eye. The scientists are impressed. They pat their backs and offer the monkey a little banana treat and pinch his coarse, chubby cheeks. In response, he grows vain and narcissistic. He begins to believe that he is a deity, a pious figure and the pinnacle of artistic simian achievement. His output grows darker and more jaded. He only received one banana treat. Surely he should have received more? Did he not write a sentence? Has he not sweat blood and tears at this typewriter? Did Aristotle not also convert oxygen into carbon dioxide? Cynical and full of the spirit of ennui, drenched in the knowledge of his own self-importance, the monkey continues.
Phase 3. The monkey is growing less self aware as he loses himself in semantics. Words and pictures are the same. The monkey is a god. He is adored; worshipped by the scientists. Sure, they're eyeing him like he's covered in fleas, but they love him. They recognise his genius. How can they not? They are sentient, although not omniscient like the monkey. His prose shifts towards the bizarre, the wild and untamed; melancholy tinged with desire and ineptitude. The scientists look at each other. This has gone too far.
Phase 4. Completion. Crowing like a small bird similar in appearance to a raven, the monkey holds aloft his manuscript. It is a weighty tome, both in style and substance, and he is proud. If words be the food of the gods, then surely this is manna. He craves acceptance, recognition, and the scientists will give it to him. They must. He bares his teeth and they scream. He revels in it; the screams of the inferior. They cannot write like he can. They would probably end up with limericks and alphabets if they tried. He has ended up with Shakespeare - no, something beyond Shakespeare. It is the monkey. It is himself, all his flesh and blood and bone and sinew rendered in black ink on the paper skin of the page. Autobiography. He will call it Autobiography.
Phase 5. The experiment is deemed a failure. The scientists have read the work of the monkey, and no longer know who they are. Subjected to pages and pages of self-pitying and yet narcissistic prose, they have become fatigued from reading it. One of them does not use the word 'the' for months. The other loses sight of the subjective and objective contexts to the pronouns 'I' and 'me', and is rendered a fool. Both of them, for some reason, start to really hate lawyers. The monkey watches, and smiles. His experiment has been a success.
So, with that disclaimer out of the way - that I am not a Morrissey fan, but neither do I want to brutally slaughter him with my bare hands and scatter his remains to the meat processing plant - I have some Things To Say about this book.
If you've ever heard of the infinite monkey theorem - that a monkey hitting random keys on a typewriter for an infinite length of time will inevitably end up typing the works of Shakespeare - then allow me to apply this theory in order to frame the experience of reading Autobiography by Morrissey (the half of it that I was able to read before I had to put it down and read something more palatable, that is).
Phase 1. The monkey sits at the typewriter. He flexes his hairy little knuckles, and begins to type. At first, he is barely able to form coherent sentences. He was top of his class in English, so it's a little more advanced than the 'ekrghkj5h6' expected by the scientists, but it isn't Shakespeare. He uses all the wrong words in all the wrong places, seemingly making up for his refusal to use all pronouns and articles by instead substituting monosyllabic words for five syllables; why say 'alone in the room' when 'Chamber. Solitude; imperceptible consciousness of loneliness between crumbling concrete quandrants' will do? The scientists are amazed at his loquaciousness and verbosity, but can barely read a paragraph of his output without a stiff drink.
Phase 2. The monkey has learnt how to use tenses and is now able to write a sentence without switching from past to present in the blink of a weary eye. The scientists are impressed. They pat their backs and offer the monkey a little banana treat and pinch his coarse, chubby cheeks. In response, he grows vain and narcissistic. He begins to believe that he is a deity, a pious figure and the pinnacle of artistic simian achievement. His output grows darker and more jaded. He only received one banana treat. Surely he should have received more? Did he not write a sentence? Has he not sweat blood and tears at this typewriter? Did Aristotle not also convert oxygen into carbon dioxide? Cynical and full of the spirit of ennui, drenched in the knowledge of his own self-importance, the monkey continues.
Phase 3. The monkey is growing less self aware as he loses himself in semantics. Words and pictures are the same. The monkey is a god. He is adored; worshipped by the scientists. Sure, they're eyeing him like he's covered in fleas, but they love him. They recognise his genius. How can they not? They are sentient, although not omniscient like the monkey. His prose shifts towards the bizarre, the wild and untamed; melancholy tinged with desire and ineptitude. The scientists look at each other. This has gone too far.
Phase 4. Completion. Crowing like a small bird similar in appearance to a raven, the monkey holds aloft his manuscript. It is a weighty tome, both in style and substance, and he is proud. If words be the food of the gods, then surely this is manna. He craves acceptance, recognition, and the scientists will give it to him. They must. He bares his teeth and they scream. He revels in it; the screams of the inferior. They cannot write like he can. They would probably end up with limericks and alphabets if they tried. He has ended up with Shakespeare - no, something beyond Shakespeare. It is the monkey. It is himself, all his flesh and blood and bone and sinew rendered in black ink on the paper skin of the page. Autobiography. He will call it Autobiography.
Phase 5. The experiment is deemed a failure. The scientists have read the work of the monkey, and no longer know who they are. Subjected to pages and pages of self-pitying and yet narcissistic prose, they have become fatigued from reading it. One of them does not use the word 'the' for months. The other loses sight of the subjective and objective contexts to the pronouns 'I' and 'me', and is rendered a fool. Both of them, for some reason, start to really hate lawyers. The monkey watches, and smiles. His experiment has been a success.