I liked the first three quarters of this book a lot. It was kind of like a punk/new wave Candide set in early 80s New York. It also reminded me a lot of Walker Percy's novel The Moviegoer, which I enjoyed. The narrator, for whom the novel is clearly named, makes a series of bad decisions which invariably yield temporary benefits before leaving him worse off than before. The fun is knowing that every one of his naive and dishonest schemes will fail. I guess it's sort of dramatic irony, but the reader can't help but wonder why the narrator can't see the pattern that keeps repeating itself.For a fuck-up, the narrator is surprisingly philosophical and literate. And he does experience temporary ups which are pretty good: buying nice suits with embezzled money, living in the posh apartment of a famous avant garde film director, hooking up with various women, scheming to get published in an East Village literary magazine. In his memorable narrative voice, these stories are fun to read.Abruptly though, the book shifts dramatically. At this point, the narrator fucks up big. He's alone, wanted by the law, badly injured and homeless. It's fitting and certainly foreshadowed, but it's no longer very much fun. It's also such a change in tone that it's almost too disconcerting. Finally, after this degradation comes an infuriatingly sudden and unsatisfying end. Taking issue with plot is less serious than taking issue with style, but in this case the problem lies with both. It's an ending that makes no sense in the story and it's written as annoying afterthought, lazy and phoned in. For a reader who can put up with such an unbelievable anticlimax, there's still plenty to enjoy in this book. Recommended for wannabe hipsters, beat literature aficionados, punks and people who want to open a novel with THE FUCK-UP printed across it in public places (glad I didn't read this on a Kindle but instead in mass market copy form at a resort on the Red Sea).
One time while I was visiting San Francisco I came across an anarchist bookstore, and because the concept of such a place was so fascinating I just had to check it out. Inside i found this book sitting there, and was totally captured by the title. I admit it, the F bomb caught my attention. It was ballsy, catchy and sounded like it might be a good story. A couple years later and here i am, slightly disappointed. It's not a disaster, but I found a lot of it to come off as gimmicky, and some of it totally unnecessary. The middle of the book is great but after that it just crashes, the ending becoming a complete mess. The protagonist is bland and unidentifiable, while all the minor characters are far more richer and interesting (which is fine, i guess).and, as a writer, I strive to be specific in my use of language and not vague or "arty", and the statement "violently silent" on page 141 just screeched so loud my reading came to a complete halt. HOW IS SILENCE VIOLENT? I want to know.
What do You think about The Fuck-Up (1999)?
To pick up a book and realize that you're currently living in that situation doesn't make the book more interesting. In fact it's like looking into a crystal ball of failure and of lost hope. Granted I'm not as fucked up as the main character, but I'm sure as hell not that far removed from his life. Unfortunately his life/my life is an exact replica of me being 24, except I live in a bigger city now. BUt alas those are my own issues, not goodreads...Even though I finished reading the book almost 12 hours ago I cannot recall the characters name or what silly situations that he got himself in. Nothing was memorable and the writing was somewhat dull and contemporary. All I can recall is that he goes through a lot of random crap and doesnt learn a lesson but is somehow redeemed at the end. Yay for main character!Unless you have worked at a movie theater/currently work at a movie theater I don't recommend this. Only an usher can truely appreciate how shitty life can be.
—Peter Panic
I would highly reccomend this book to anyone with balls enough to explore a world completely unlike his own. This book follows one 20 something's unambitious but not exactly apathetic foray through his NYC life. He fails at relationships, keeping a job, keeping a roof over his head and via all three and a suicide learns the only lesson there is to learn from life, namely, how to learn contentment even when things aren't awesome. Excellent, real, gritty prose. A shorter more approachable "Infinite Jest" (from the 20 pages I've read of that novel).
—Jennifer
Oh man! I remember finding this on the shelf in the St. Augustine Barnes & Noble when I was twenty and being like Whoah that says FUCK right on the cover, and buying it and reading it and liking it kind of pretty okay but NOW I live in New York and I see Arthur Nersesian all over the place and the other day he came by and was like "Hey someone just gave me a copy of my book, want it?" and signed it all nice and so I went home and read it yesterday and oh man! Isn't that a sweet little story? Twenty-year old Hannah spies book due to a cuss and then ten years later gets to be all friendly-town with said book's author. *I* think it is a sweet story. And I liked the book better this time, too. Huzzah!
—Hannah Messler
