Morrissey So-Famous-I-Only-Need-One-Name's first novel List of the Lost is nothing short of a tragedy. A tragedy for the publishers who agreed to stroke his inflated ego by allowing it to go to print, a tragedy for readers everywhere who waste precious hours (which seem to drag on) in the valiant effort to finish the novel (if you can call it that - it somehow seems an insult to all other novels to do so), and a tragedy for the plot, which should have been a moving and thought-provoking exploration of love and loss. List of the Lost follows a four-piece American relay team in the 1970s after they accidentally kill a homeless man. From thereon in, things get progressively weirder, as Morrissey struggles to decide if he is writing a fantasy, a philosophical novel or literary fiction. The entire thing is a mess. A large part of the issue comes from Morrissey's self-indulgent writing style, similar to that of an angsty, precocious fifteen year old who has learned about lit...
“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” - C.S. Lewis