June 21, 2012
Sam Lipsyte /// Venus Drive
There’s a type of book in which I’m never surprised to find Gordon Lish’s name atop the heap of back-page acknowledgments; to be sure, the pedigree can’t be sneezed at. These stories exhibit the spiky machismo—or masochism, in their “tender” moments—that I guess we are meant to demand from mordant males, though it’s really just so much escalating fuck-uppery engineered to set you squirming. His unlucky shitheels, for all their spite, are approachable avatars for Gary Lutz’s invisible grotesques. Every sentence is a hook. What you can hang on them is: nothing much.    

Sam Lipsyte /// Venus Drive

There’s a type of book in which I’m never surprised to find Gordon Lish’s name atop the heap of back-page acknowledgments; to be sure, the pedigree can’t be sneezed at. These stories exhibit the spiky machismo—or masochism, in their “tender” moments—that I guess we are meant to demand from mordant males, though it’s really just so much escalating fuck-uppery engineered to set you squirming. His unlucky shitheels, for all their spite, are approachable avatars for Gary Lutz’s invisible grotesques. Every sentence is a hook. What you can hang on them is: nothing much.    

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