Freedom, enchaîné

So eventually Freedom takes a deep breath and forces us to consider Conor Oberst. I stared at the page. Somewhere in Philadelphia, Terri Gross, reading the same passages, died, her clit swelling straight up through her body and brain, exploding out the back of her skull like a cordyceps fungus out of a bullet ant. Honestly, Jonathan Franzen, Bright Eyes? Really? I know the scene is supposed to be set in 2004, but weren't you already assured of fawning NPR interviews?

Anyway, it is plain in retrospect that I took this preposterous tome about a thousand times too seriously. I admit, I must have been feeling a little defensive. I might've wanted to prove that my opinions about this fucking hack weren't merely glib, tossed-off, careless bits of contrarianism. Whatever, fuck that shit. You may recall I mocked Freedom's second segment, a failed effort at mock autobiography. Yeah, well, the "autobiography" turns up as a plot device. All is revealed! (Also, one character who reads it compliments "Patty"'s writing. Oh, Lord. Coetzee just dug himself a grave and shot himself in the head so that he could fall in and start rolling.) The Most Important Novel of 2010 turns on a plot device cribbed from a Baby-sitters Club novel. Dear Diary, get bent.