As a fan, I feel bad criticising it. So I'll quote from it instead
Morrissey, the former frontman for The Smiths, has been approached to appear on Radio 4's rural soap The Archers Photo: GETTY IMAGES
The Telegraph - 25 Sept 2015
Morrissey, the one-time singer for The Smiths, writes the best lyrics I’ve ever heard.
Sadly, he’s also written the worst novel I’ve ever read.
List of the Lost is his first venture into fiction. As a fan, I feel bad criticising it, so perhaps I should just quote from it instead. A street at night: “lush houses of beddy-bye shut-eye snoozled in sleepland”. A running coach: “He was in his best charioteer mood with his coachy-coachy tones all a-shower with stats of this and thats, overages and averages.” Sample dialogue: “'I have erotic curiosities,’ topspins Ezra.” (Topspins?)
The prose is a relentless thumping migraine of alliteration, assonance and rhyme. “Plungingly plump parents laugh loudly.” I suppose it’s meant to sound like James Joyce, but ultimately it’s more like a 40,000-word tongue-twister. And as for the sex... for years Morrissey claimed to be celibate. Now I’ve read his sex scenes, I believe him. They’re laughable. Try not to dwell on what a “bulbous salutation” might be.
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More of the same elsewhere
"Do not read this book; do not sully yourself with it, no matter how temptingly brief it seems," says Michael Hann of The Guardian.
"All those who shepherded it to print should hang their heads in shame, for it's hard to imagine anything this bad has been put between covers by anyone other than a vanity publisher. It is an unpolished turd of a book, the stale excrement of Morrissey's imagination."
Independent
More
More of the same elsewhere
"Do not read this book; do not sully yourself with it, no matter how temptingly brief it seems," says Michael Hann of The Guardian.
"All those who shepherded it to print should hang their heads in shame, for it's hard to imagine anything this bad has been put between covers by anyone other than a vanity publisher. It is an unpolished turd of a book, the stale excrement of Morrissey's imagination."
Independent
