Every time I hear a reviewer/reader say a book is finely wrought, built up, great structure, not a word out of place, everything perfect, I think:
I don’t want to read that.
Why would I want to read that? Where is the joy in reading something carved into extinction? I love messy books, books that try and push, try to pull, experiment, throw shit in for the sake of throwing it in. J-Pod is a good example of this- there is so much random shit in J-Pod, it’s like the absolute opposite of finely tuned, word in every place leading to a cathedral of prose- it’s messy and it’s anarchistic and it’s gleefully cruel.
There are tons of other books that work the same way (most of Kerouac’s oeuvre is a pile of messes, tangled up, experimental, running on and on, the brain never stopping) and that’s what I love. I love words that don’t stop, pages that crumple in, failed bits of experiments, successful pages of noise. To me? All of that piles up and up, leaves holes to be filled, worlds to be created in the cracks. It’s messy and beautiful and real. Like urban sprawls half decaying, graffiti noise in the dark, even in nature, with bent bushes and burnt out lightning struck trees still crackling with electricity.
Give me messy books any day. Give me noisy, loud, poetic trumpets in the dark. Minimalism is boring. Perfection is boring. I don’t listen for perfection when I read, I go in for self annihilation, nihilistic destruction of the narrative self.