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Three Hundred Million A Novel Blake Butler Books

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Three Hundred Million A Novel Blake Butler Books

To read this book one needs two things: a true love of language and a cast-iron stomach. It takes endurance. It takes concentration. It takes a love of poetic linguistics. Butler is the Walt Whitman of the American Apocalypse. These are the visions of David Lynch writ large via the visceral soundscapes of Michael Gira and his Swans. This is Butler channeling Aleister Crowley and Charles Manson via H.P. Lovecraft. It’s James Ellroy during his Black Dahlia period while downing massive dosages of lysergic acid. It’s post-human, postmodern (Jameson), post-Christian (Bloom) and postmortem (Witkin). It has defecation, deification, decay, desecration, dismemberment, delusion, dereliction, deconstruction, delirium and dualism. Not unlike Matthew Barney’s grueling but visionary River of Fundament, appearing the same year, it is excessive, demanding of endurance, indulgent, overbearing and simply brilliant. It is a portrait of America and/or Apocalypse now.


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Three Hundred Million A Novel Blake Butler Books Reviews

Reading this book made me feel like I had always been living inside of a can of SPAM and had only recently became aware of that fact. Not that I *was* the SPAM but that it was enveloping me, beneath the tin casing, was tightly pressed against my flesh. And lots of time passed. And I was still there in the meaty darkness. Until day the can was opened. And light began to pour in from the wild world outside of the can. And my body sang about the colors and sounds and the feel of air against its skin. And it was so much more than I was prepared for, so much more than I could bear. And I was plopped down onto a red-hot iron skillet, seared and flipped and seared again, then pressed between two pieces of Wonder Bread and quickly masticated. I would read it again if only I could.
Don't you just hate it when writers try to be tricky with getting into the heads of sociopaths and pretend to understand how they think? It has all gone to hell since Silence of the Lambs (with a few brilliant exceptions) but this writer, for all his interesting imagery and diction, is forcing the issue and getting caught up in his own tricks.
It takes a while, maybe a hundred pages, to figure out how to read Blake Butler's new book, but then it becomes a hypnotic rhythm that forces you to take his prose to new levels. I loved the textures, disharmonies, and knew that the graphic violence was simply the medium to wake up America to our own nature. Just look at today and how so many of us are killing each other. His writing demands intense focus and grit to stay with it to the end, but totally worth it. This is a monumental work of modern day prose. Just take it to a new level.
Ambitious, but almost unreadable.
300,000,000 contains the seeds of a great story. The book is build on a foundation of surreal and disturbing narrative, complex characters, and pure insanity.
Unfortunately, what is built upon that foundation is bland, boring, and weird just for the sake of weirdness. There is little to no character development and zero plot development. The plot actually makes a quiet exit around page 150 and what follows is a nonsensical circle jerk.
But that's the point the book is meant to be different; it's meant to have almost no narrative structure, plot development, or character development; it's meant to be pure gibberish.
I can't recommend this novel. It's not like reading it will make you stupider (hell, if you're reading just for the sake of reading, go for it), it's just not particularly compelling nor is it particularly interesting. It goes absolutely nowhere.
Does Blake Butler succeed at creating a non traditional, experimental, and cliché subverting novel? Yes.
Is it good? No
I find VERY few novels not worth finishing, but I had to quit this one about halfway in once I found myself only reading the first line of paragraphs and skipping the rest. I found that while the story and characters were compelling and I was truly interested in discovering where the book would take me, the way it was written - using a run-on stream-of-consciousness technique that did not, in my mind, flow at all - just made my brain hurt trying to unscramble the strange grammatical patterns and disjointed vocabulary. I see what the author was trying to do by going this route, but it didn't work for me.
Amazing prose. Infectious, rhythmic, visceral, shamanistic and transcendent. An novel like no other.
To read this book one needs two things a true love of language and a cast-iron stomach. It takes endurance. It takes concentration. It takes a love of poetic linguistics. Butler is the Walt Whitman of the American Apocalypse. These are the visions of David Lynch writ large via the visceral soundscapes of Michael Gira and his Swans. This is Butler channeling Aleister Crowley and Charles Manson via H.P. Lovecraft. It’s James Ellroy during his Black Dahlia period while downing massive dosages of lysergic acid. It’s post-human, postmodern (Jameson), post-Christian (Bloom) and postmortem (Witkin). It has defecation, deification, decay, desecration, dismemberment, delusion, dereliction, deconstruction, delirium and dualism. Not unlike Matthew Barney’s grueling but visionary River of Fundament, appearing the same year, it is excessive, demanding of endurance, indulgent, overbearing and simply brilliant. It is a portrait of America and/or Apocalypse now.