If there were award for such things, I'd nominate this for Best Sentence of the Year Involving a Satirical Take on the State of Entertainment Today:
"Imagine how horrified those screaming people would be now, when, for example, you can log on to the “Evidence of Evil” Web site and they’ll send you a boxful of bloody prosthetics, which you can reassemble into a crack-addicted whore, who will then emit some clues through her computerized voice box—and when you think you know who murdered her you enter the name of the killer on the Web site and, if you’re right, you’ll get to see a short clip of her making love with her killer moments before he hacks her to bits while she has a flashback of her mother beating her with a chair leg."
Look closely. That's one sentence. And it's brilliant.
I fucking love George Saunders. I wish he'd do something shitty so I could love him at a less embarrassing level. I think that's why people keep telling him to write a novel, so they can hate it. And, by extension, him.
Yeah, I too love George Saunders. But honestly, AM, this essay isn't funny or smart. Just further proof of the New Yorker's short descent into totally shittiness.
Really? You love George Saunders but not this essay? That seems unlikely. This is, like, vintage Saunders. This is Saunders distilled. If you dried out Saunders in your smokehouse, this would be Saunders jerky.
Either you don't like Saunders or you like this essay. You can't claim both.
5 comments:
If there were award for such things, I'd nominate this for Best Sentence of the Year Involving a Satirical Take on the State of Entertainment Today:
"Imagine how horrified those screaming people would be now, when, for example, you can log on to the “Evidence of Evil” Web site and they’ll send you a boxful of bloody prosthetics, which you can reassemble into a crack-addicted whore, who will then emit some clues through her computerized voice box—and when you think you know who murdered her you enter the name of the killer on the Web site and, if you’re right, you’ll get to see a short clip of her making love with her killer moments before he hacks her to bits while she has a flashback of her mother beating her with a chair leg."
Look closely. That's one sentence. And it's brilliant.
I fucking love George Saunders. I wish he'd do something shitty so I could love him at a less embarrassing level. I think that's why people keep telling him to write a novel, so they can hate it. And, by extension, him.
Yeah, George Saunders is da bomb.
Have you been reading that new Walter Kirn story on Slate? Seems a lot like a Saunders story.
Yeah, I too love George Saunders. But honestly, AM, this essay isn't funny or smart. Just further proof of the New Yorker's short descent into totally shittiness.
Really? You love George Saunders but not this essay? That seems unlikely. This is, like, vintage Saunders. This is Saunders distilled. If you dried out Saunders in your smokehouse, this would be Saunders jerky.
Either you don't like Saunders or you like this essay. You can't claim both.
Me likey the funny, smarty words.
Sound like somebody not likey the New Yorker...-y?
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