I honestly find myself at a loss for words having just completed Snuff.
From someone so brilliant to have written the likes of Survivor and Fight Club, comes.. well, this.
This book reads like a Wikipedia article collection, written by thirteen year old boys still searching for the perfect way to describe someone who masturbates. The incessant factoids about porn, Marilyn Monroe, condoms, the gay community, and cyanide could possibly the the most boring, ineffectual and downright idiotic thing I've read in my entire life.
The description is enticing, but this book downright fails to deliver. Chuck insists on creating as many stupid porn titles as he possibly can, sounding like a rehersal for a Saturday Night Live skit before airing, minus any of the humour. The first couple gain a small chuckle, the rest leave you shaking your head. If I had to read one more name for someone who masturbates, I would have thrown the book across the room - had the hardcover novella deceptively marketed as a full novel not cost an arm and a leg.
The plot is unremarkable in every way, the characters utterly unlikeable and unrelatable. Words are repeated, and I feel sorry for whoever edited this 'work' - they're likely out of a job, from all the akward sentences.
You could see the ending of this novel - minus a small 'twist' in the form of the reality in which the two characters will now have to live - coming from a mile away, though they drag it out through disjointed style that forces you to pick it all apart.
If I have anything positive at all to say about this work - the cover is intriguing. Brings back the Linda Lovelace train of thought.
Here's to hoping Palahniuk delivers something worth reading sooner than later.