Something I guess I should've known before picking this one up is that it's kind of for beat completionists only, cause Cassady here just writes about his childhood and memories of growing up- it's not the standard Kerouac cross-country adventures nor the crazy psychedelic writings of Burroughs. But regardless, it's still good. The memoir itself is roughly only a hundred pages if you exclude his 40 page tale of family history. Cassady was an incredibly fascinating guy, still a little sad we really only got to hear about his childhood and not like, what happened after that (Well, I guess you kinda do if you read all of the "fragments" and letters and extra stuff). Anyway, I like long sentences, this guy is great at describing stuff, too.

A book that while just a bit too short to really resonate with me, is a brilliant philosophical drama that explores morality yadda yadda you get it. The writing style can be just a tad bit hard to follow from time to time, when you first pick it up, you'll find yourself often flipping back pages and rereading sentences to remind yourself why the character is doing what they're doing/where they are/what's happening in the story. The trial at the end is kinda the main highlight. Half the book is the day-to-day life of the main character, obviously some dramatic moments, but for the most part just exposition, and then the second part of the story is... weirdly enough also still pretty chill in tone despite the fact the protagonist has found themself in prison. A great one even if it does kinda take multiple reads to fully appreciate.

Hello, Person is a potent political satire a la David Foster Wallace, David Sedaris, David Berman, any good authors names David honestly. Consider this book’s ETA Hamburger U. and its Hal Incandenza none other than awkward and gangly Kevin Kapoor. This book’s key point is that it’s really funny. This can kind of distract you from the filler or “what happened to (X)” chapters if you just like to get to the point of what you’re reading, as reading an officially published work lacking an aura of complete effortlessness say the word “Juggalo.” It’s a pretty fantastic book although the down-to-earth and slice of life Part One where anything unrealistic or fantastical other than Phil himself is just driven from purely obeying the rules of a joke I vastly prefer to the odd apocalyptic ending that completely sends any down-to-earthness out the window. The book does a great job establishing its themes of corporate exploitation of resources through Phil, the dopey unicorn on the cover. The landscapes of stucco buildings and strip malls and large generically named corporations all out to get Phil- or on a metaphorical level, land, labor, and capital- it all weaves to you an image of the life we refuse to see, a life full of bland corporate scenery.

I'd considered reading this for this list for, I dunno, a month, and I finally got around to it. Really just as great as my quick preview read from around three or four weeks ago. The third act is an absolute kick to the yarbles, but I really enjoyed the whole thing. The slang usage is so interesting- I love books that are written in some sort of dialect or form of language you have to get used to. Lowkey I think the book is better with the last chapter, also. And, yes, the main character does have some really bad luck with whom he encounters in act iii but ehhh

It’s cut from the same cloth as Catcher in the Rye- which, sure, that describes quite a few books when it comes down to “angsty classics (and modern classics) about teenagers and young adults that end up emotionally devastating you,” Generation X, The Bell Jar, My Year of Rest and Relaxation, what have you- but, regardless, it’s just a fantastic book. Working as a roman a clef bildungsroman novel, we see Charles Buk- uh, Sal Paradi- uh, Henry Chinaski describing his childhood. All of which described in a sludgy, grimy manner that makes school fights seem like dogfights and helps highlight Bukowski’s nihilistic and generally misanthropic attitude (despite how he claims he isn’t one in the last chapter); you end up finding yourself Caulfielded (Caulfeld??) into sympathizing with Hank. Bukowski’s writing style also might be one of the most interesting I’ve ever seen; he writes everything like he’s a war veteran that’s describing the atrocities he’s committed. He revels in this weird sense of squeamishness his writing invokes. And of course, he’s really funny, too. In other words, funny and sad is a great combination, as always.