Everything is Illuminated, by Jonathan Safran Foer

Genre: LITERARY fiction, damnit! And if you tell him any different he’ll bust a cap in your ass.

I would like to preface this review/rant by saying that I have not read Everything Is Illuminated. I made it to exactly page 20 before I scooped my eyeballs out with coffee spoons and ran screaming, through traffic and thick fields of nettles, just to take it back to the library.

Jonathan Safran Foer, while undoubtedly a good writer—why else would he be called a wunderkind in every article I’ve seen about him, and that’s a lot—is pretentious. The book is about a guy (named Jonathan Safran Foer…first clue that pretension is looming) who is trying to find the woman that may or may not have saved his grandfather from the Nazis. BUT, the story of Jonathan Safran Foer (by Jonathan Safran Foer…and this is fiction, people) is told from the POV of a Russian interpreter/guide. The guide’s favorite topic, from the 20 pages I managed to stomach, is anything relating to masturbation, penises, tits (I’m quoting), a scrotum with a string tied to it, and did I mention masturbation and penises?? In 20 pages I think I counted at least fifteen references to reproductive organs, molestation, sucking, fucking, and groping. Excuse my language, but that’s the way it was. According to the jacket, and some of the reviews I’ve read, it’ was supposed to be funny. Right. And it wasn’t graphic, or pornographic…just there. Looming like a phallic symbol at every turn.

Jonathan Safran Foer reminds me of John Updike, and in all the ways that John Updike annoys me. In college I was faced with my first Updike experience in the form of an essay entitled, “The Disposable Rocket.” Wanna know what that rocket was?? Yep, formerly precious and overactive peenie. Updike—in his essay that was apparently considered good enough to read in my required non-fiction writing class—discussed how tragic it was that the male body, so glorious in its youth and vigor, eventually decays to a point that said male can no longer throw himself down the stairs at a party to impress “da ladies” (that was my best Ladies’ Man impression). I’m pretty sure Foer keeps a copy of “The Disposable Rocket” taped to the ceiling of his bedroom so that it can seep into his consciousness as he sleeps, and I have a feeling he might even throw himself down stairs at parties.

As one Amazon reviewer so fittingly wrote:His style is one that is so obviously telling the reader, "Hey look at how clever I am! Aren't I so funny and brilliant...I'm great", and personally that's a turn-off.

I didn’t like it. Could you tell? In fact, it may go down as the most vile 20 pages I’ve ever read.

How’s that for projectile?