A great thing about the story is the surprise brutality and pop-up darkness that just keeps coming. The violence manifests itself throughout the novel. Julie shoved it in all the way to its head. Writing in the first person with the frank, odd lilt of an utterly truthful character, she will make you laugh, cringe and recognize yourself in a woman you never planned to be. And the mother had bite marks on her hand and she said to Roberta, Have a candy star. And then she meets Vicky Talluso, another misfit; but one with flair. The cruddy girl named Roberta was writing the cruddy book of her cruddy life and the name of the book was called Cruddy.
Disturbing and beautiful in the best sort of twisted way! She is a survivor and a wonderful narrator. In the pitch-black middle of the night he will start to glow green at you with his arms up like he is doing a tragic ballet. To transition from a book about the lynching of Civil Rights workers to a bloody, murderful saga of child abuse, outsiderness, and general psychosis - tis no This book is some sick shit. In the garbage ravine there is a nude man who crouches among the trash piles and his name is Old Red and he has very yellow skin like freezer-burned chicken and his thing in life is to suddenly run out and do a two-second display of his dinger and then run back in. The structure of the book is a drawing exercise that allows a hundred demons to flow out of the artist's pen onto paper.
Teeth missing and greasy two-color hair on the women and regular greasy hair on the men and all of the people come in two sizes only, very fat or very skinny. The result is simultaneously poignant and hilarious—never one at the expense of the other—and so are her loopy, sure-lined drawings, which make both the kids and the adults look as awkward and scrunched-up as they feel. The burning question of why she turned out the way she did and why she ended the way she ended. It is truly an engrossing story on a couple of levels. She likes him because he likes her and, for awhile, she gets lost in her crush and forgets about how her homicidal ex-meat cutter father took her on a murderous ride through the desert in search of three suitcases containing his dead fathers defrauded fortune. It gets points for being beautifully written - despite the weirdness, but I couldn't handle how dark it got.
Basement floors too hot to touch. Because it was me who killed him. Harmong is the cheapest chintziest most pig-lipped tightwad skanked-out lardo king landlord of all time. Her need for love and acceptance just like all teenagers is overwhelming but her circumstances are so much worse than most kids. Barry's writing style that combines naivety, grossness for lack of a better word , and humor to create an impressive depth. This is a reading experience of shock and awe, maybe, then. A roommate had a dogeared and water damaged copy laying on a stack of magazines and every time I passed it I added another layer of resentment for the book.
I met her at school on the day of my fifth-year anniversary of the Lucky Chief Motel Massacre. Curdled still in a good way. One was Cookie and the other one was me. No One Belongs Here More Than You won the Frank O'Connor International Short Story Award and has been published in twenty-three countries. Cruddy describes the ugly world that the main character, a teenager named Roberta, lives it.
The spree ended with her father as the prime suspect in the Lucky Chief Motel Massacre and with Roberta walking through the Nevada while covered with blood Barry. Maybe they are all Mike. She said, Roberta, I am not. If it weren't so darned sad it'd be almost funny. But I guess I can confirm that is violent and disturbing, and at times touching.
Please be aware that this discussion guide may contain spoilers! If your insides really were your outsides, every secret fear a boil on your face? Every little trashy, mundane, morally decrepit, deformed, limping, sun-scorched, pock-mark scarred detail has a story. Out of the other corner of her eye the author could see Julie sitting at the top of the stairs and smiling because she was happy the mother was screaming at the author. That said, what is truly remarkable about the book and what I liked most about it is that despite how bad things are for Roberta, she isn't sitting around asking for sympathy or wallowing in self pity. That's my favorite trick, when an author can pull it off. If this were the case one would expect him to open the suitcases as he found them and make use of the money, but he does not do this.
I don't know what it is or what it's doing. People say he is actually a businessman, an executive at Boeing, very high up. And if this wasn't confusing enough for the young Roberta, her father made her go by the name Clyde, a mute and wickedly bruised son. It's the kind of book that makes you want to try writing a screenplay. The New Yorker Cruddy's horror-bright narrative and over-the-top mayhem comedy nearly blind you to its plain, heartbreaking realism. Reading Cruddy is like finding a bloody finger in your sandwich but you keep eating it anyway.
The father story is so much like the Hobbit or Treasure Island but is also one of the most traumatizing and terribly brutal stories I've read I think ever. No one is described in a manner that makes them appealing or trustworthy. Written with a teenager's eye for freakish detail and a nervous ability to make the most horrible scenes seem hilarious, Roberta's two stories -- part Easy Rider and part bipolar Wizard of Oz -- painfully but inevitably converge in a surprising denouement in a nightmarish Dreamland in the Nevada desert. I judged Cruddy by the cover. I can't say I enjoyed this book, but I was kind of amazed by it. While Cruddy is not a comic, Barry has indeed already written the great American novel. Me and Ma were playing tiddlywinks at the kitchen table.
Now Roberta is back from just getting in huge trouble for throwing the Cutex Nail Polish Remover bottle at her sister. None of it is pretty. He is devoted to his knives and goes so far as to name them. The Hollow Ground recalls nothing so much as the dark and powerful dramas of Eugene O'Neill. Let us not forget the delicious scene in Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell, when our hero extracts a piece of his own leg bone to create a sharp piece of weaponry. They could take lessons from Barry, by the way.