Kind of an odd tale. Not one that could have been published five years ago, and certainly not one that could have been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize then. I picked this up to see what it was about, started to read the synopsis on the back and next thing I knew, I'd already finished two chapters. If nothing else, the narrative will keep stringing you along.
The story centres around a young Pakistani man who has lived in the US for several years. He went to university in Princeton and then got a job as an analyst with a prestigious company in New York. He has fallen in love with a beautiful woman and his world seems to be coming together just nicely. Then September 11 happens and everything changes.
This is an absolutely incredible book. It is really interesting and presents some fairly radical views on the nature of knowledge and learning in an accessible and engaging way. A seminal text in the field of organisational learning and organisational knowledge studies and forming the basis of the concept of 'Communities of Practice', this book has been cited and appropriated as the basis of many others' work - and as is always the case, has also been badly misrepresented and misappropriated at times. Well worth a read though and then you can make up your own mind about how it has been used since.
About as interesting as it sounds, so not very. Unfortunately, I will have to try and wade through this again because I couldn't bring myself to read the whole thing. In the interests of fairness, there will be no star rating until then.
So, it's a good while since I read this. I know that I had tried to read it before and given up (Chapter One was very familiar), which is never a good sign. All in all, not a bad read. Popcorn for the brain. Not as funny as the first one, but not entirely terrible either.
This is not something that I have done since I started this reviewing business, but sweet Christ, I could not read this book. I'm sorry. I tried. I kept plodding along with it in the hopes that I'd get into it, but no joy. The story is tragic, even worse, it is hopeless; the protaganists have no redeeming qualities, because their mother has fucked with their heads so badly; the sex is simultaneously prolific, profane and completely devoid of any heart or heat. I suppose that it's a feat to be able to write something so filthy without any eroticism whatsoever. Whatever. It wasn't enough to keep me turning the pages. Maybe I'll give it another go in a year or two... but for now, Houellebecq: nil points.
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