I am officially finished with Chuck Palahniuk. I loved him at fourteen, liked him at seventeen, but at nineteen, I'm finished. Snuff was absolutely awful, but I still picked up Pygmy, hoping I could return to loving Palahniuk, a trait that I'm increasingly starting to believe was a sign of immaturity in my reading habits. Instead, I gave up after twenty pages of broken English, anti-American litanies that could horrify a Canadian (and that is saying something), and one graphic rape scene. Goodbye, Chuck. Goodbye forever.
1/5
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