This post might easily be titled “Reading Regret: Addendum,” because this book is so regrettable that I fully expect you to ask “Why, exactly, did you even read it?”
To be honest, I keep asking myself the same thing and coming up short.
Here’s why I started: I have watched Fight Club a few times with various groups of friends. By the third viewing, I was less concerned with the plot and more interested in the philosophy behind the movie. Given that so many people watch it and discuss it, what are they most likely to take away from it? What sorts of ideas did the original book contain? Was it most concerned with making something meaningful of one’s life, or satisfied by fighting overweening consumerism with bloodsport, adrenaline, and mayhem? Was there anything true in the book, or was it all metaphysically suspect?
I decided to get it out of the library, found that it was already checked out, and elected to get another of Palahniuk’s novels instead of waiting for Fight Club. Which was silly, because Choke sat on my shelf all summer, and autumn, and winter, and I finally cracked it last week.
So much for why I started. The very first words are “If you’re going to read this, don’t bother,” and I ignored them, which means any unwanted gunk in my brain is my own dang fault.
It’s easy enough to read; swallow a couple chapters and you’ll probably be a little curious about what happens in the other 47, even if you choke occasionally on some nauseating detail or other. Victor, the deadpan snarky narrator, goes back and forth between describing his messed-up childhood, his abhorrent job, off-putting sexual encounters (his own and other people’s, as he is part of a sex addicts anonymous program), the hours spent visiting his mother (afflicted with dementia, such that she forgets to eat) at St. Anthony’s nursing home, and the revolting way he goes about getting more money for said home’s fees: purposefully choking at restaurants so someone else can swoop in, be a hero, and thus feel responsible for him forever (which apparently extends to sending him money periodically. I’m not sure what it says about me that I found that the least believable part of the book).
That summary makes it sound better than it is. The non-linear narrative remains engaging enough to see one through, and just as one becomes thoroughly grossed out by one anecdote, Victor turns to describe something else. Which is about all the positive spin I can put on it. The most sympathetic character is a recovering masturbation addict who sublimates his compulsions into collecting rocks to assemble into some kind of
erection edifice. This book is Pandora’s box, except that instead of hope being shut inside at the end, you’re left with an ambiguous cessation of action. It’s everything I disliked about Catcher in the Rye, but far more sordid and gruesome. The congenital is not made congenial by making the pubic public; it’s just taking the dirt from its proper place in the garden and hurling it all over the coffee table, the kitchen, the bed.
Somehow, that approach feels significant; despite my disgust I wonder if it represents some aspect of reality, putting a finger to the pulse of what people believe in society today. There’s the conversational prose stuffed with informative tidbits. There’s a discussion about misogyny springing from misandry: how many times can everybody tell you that you’re the oppressive, prejudiced enemy before you give up and become the enemy[?] …I mean, in a world without God aren’t mothers the new god? The last sacred unassailable position. Isn’t motherhood the last perfect magical miracle? There’s a despairing rejection of religion, a blasphemous treatment of the specifically Christian, and so much emphasis on the carnality of flesh, all the filth that issues from it, and all the disgusting ways it breaks down.
I read Choke trying to understand whatever people might believe this, people with abusive childhoods and compulsion-riddled adolescence. But mostly I came away wondering if I’ve actually met people as hopeless as this. I came away full of pity for both Palahniuk and anyone bearing a passing resemblance to his creation, because this does not treat men like men: it treats them like animals, and then argues that this is preferable because knowledge brings pain.
There is no such thing as altruism here, no redemption, nothing noble or lovely or of good report. There is nothing admirable, just lust and gluttony and reveling in the foulness of what is foul.
If you want to learn about the diseases killing you and everyone around you, read WebMD. If you can’t think of the word you want but insist on trying the first that comes to mind, read a thesaurus. If you want to ruminate about the possibility that nothing good can exist without the risk of something bad, read Brave New World. If you want to contemplate “a life based on doing good stuff instead of just not doing bad stuff,” read “The Weight of Glory.” If you want paradoxes, read Chesterton. If you want to muse about a past that cannot be remade, read “The Road Not Taken” or The Great Gatsby or Brideshead Revisited or An Artist of the Floating World.
Basically: whatever it is you seek, find it anywhere but here.