torek, 11. oktober 2016

Paul Beatty: The Sellout



Finalistka za bookerja 2016.

Beatty v svojem satiričnem, absurdnem romanu že otvoritvene stavke pripelje z dvesto kilometri na uro. Dve, tri strani potrebuje, pa se že hahljamo in oziramo za žrtvami, ki bi jim recitirali odlomke. Pa je branje dokaj zafrknjeno. Recimo:
Every payday he’d be inundated by teeming hordes of the bipolar poor, who having spent it all in one place, and grown tired and unsated from the night’s notoriously shitty prime-time television lineup, would unwedge themselves from between the couch-bound obese family members and the boxes of unsold Avon beauty products, turn off the kitchen radio pumping song after song extolling the virtues of Friday nights living it up at the club, popping bottles, niggers, and cherries in that order, then having canceled the next day’s appointment with their mental health care professional, the chatterbox cosmetologist, who after years doing heads, still knows only one hairstyle—fried, dyed, and laid to the side—they’d choose that Friday, “day of Venus,” goddess of love, beauty, and unpaid bills, to commit suicide, murder, or both.
Dober, potrpežljiv bralec bo nagrajen z neverjetno črnsko zgodbo in oživljanjem ideje suženjstva, nam, manj izkušenim amaterjem, pa kaj kmalu zmanjka potrpljenja ob medli nosilni zgodbi, in knjigo zalučamo v kot.

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