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Weak writing by someone who clearly suffers from depression
on 31 March 2008
"I just get things done instead of talking about getting them done. I don't go out and party. I don't smoke, drink or do drugs and I'm not married, that leaves a lot of time for my work."
"I'm 38 and if I met a woman of my own age and married her, I'd also be marrying her former life, her past. It might be OK for some people - I don't want to judge it or anything - but it's not for me. It would destroy my creativity."
Henry Rollins doesn't drink, smoke or take drugs. He travels America with his (spoken word) show and writes books about his thoughts and travels. Here (Do i come here often?) each diary entry Rollins made for every birthday from 25-35 is reprinted. With most people of that age their lives change immeasurably in that time with the arrival of children or other serious responsibilities. Rollins remains largely the same.
His writing smacks of immaturity: "When i open my mouth, i waste my time"...and he refers to people as insects. His writing is evidence that his life is one endless plough of the same lonely,frustrated furrow.
"I think about the meaning of pain. Pain is personal. It really belongs to the one feeling it. Probably the only thing that is your own. I like mine."
This book reminds me of a website (of travel stories) I once discovered recently. It was full of poorly written stories penned by young back-packing ego-maniacs who have a misguided belief that what they write is great, and have laboured under the delusion that success at writing was at hand.
In conclusion, Shut up Rollins, take some prozac, buy yourself a pint of beer and enjoy a cigarette.
"Life will not break your heart. It'll crush it."
"Loneliness adds beauty to life. It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.."
This poor book piles cliché upon cliché, and any claims its authors may make to its serving as a parable are undermined by the ludicrously compressed and melodramatic nature of Rollins odyssey. But be thankful it's not longer; at 130 pages, one may still derive some perverse pleasure from the silliness of it all.