I'd been curious about Kathy Acker; I knew of her work by reputation only, but she once did an interview with Alasdair Gray that I found interesting and insightful, so I guess I was already favorably predisposed. And thus, when I was having dinner at a friend's house and saw some of Acker's books on her husband's shelves--her husband being the more po-mo half of the couple--I called in a favor ("How many of my Julian Barnes books do you have in your possession right now?") and borrowed them.

Well. Whoa.

For one thing, I was reading this book in parallel with my friend's husband's annotations, which...is actually something I recommend. Not necessarily reading Michael's annotations (although they're quite good), but following along with the marginalia and underlinings of someone you sort-of-but-don't-really know. I mean, if we're talking postmodern, it's hard to get much more fragmented and post- than that.

But the book itself is an experience, too. Acker's writing is spiky, prickly, and so are her ideas (about sex, about gender, about power, about literature). And as someone who's read a goodly amount of postmodern/experimental fiction, I'm surprised to say that her use of the various standard techniques (parody, pastiche, etc.) actually worked on me as a reader--that is, the text was unsettled and unsettling, destabilized, all of that exciting stuff that can sometimes get lost in fancy typographical tricks and footnotes or whatever.

I'll have to read more of her work, obviously, but I'm almost afraid to because Don Quixote was so...I don't know. Stunning, maybe? I feel a bit stunned by it at the moment. It's not a bad feeling to have. ( )

I would not for any reason say this book is bad, but I think by reading it I have established the upper limit of what I can stomach as far as experimental writing goes. It felt like just a bit to much for me. ( )

What a fucking sock in the chest.To quote Pete and Pete "It's like someone punched [my:] soul." ( )

An interesting idea, but the novelty wore off pretty quickly. It was written like the author enjoys reading literary theory more than fiction and literature, I'm afraid. I have a feeling that anyone who reads literary theory for pleasure will get a blast out of this, but for me, it was simply tiresome, and heavy on the profanity included for shock value as opposed to need or sense. It might have been based off of an idea worth pursuing on some level, but not to this degree. No, I don't recommend it. ( )