Book 45: List of the Lost

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 literary techniques in school and cannot wait to show off what he has learnt. The text is littered with alliteration and assonance, and not in a good way - he often accomplishes this by making up words, which is highly problematic since he is neither Roald Dahl nor writing for children And when he is not making up words to accomplish this, the combination of words sounds so forced that it sticks in your mind for all the wrong reasons. Furthermore, List of the Lost is riddled with tangential sections, where Morrissey shares his 'philosophical' views on the world with his readers, reinforcing the self-absorbed 'teenage' vibe of the novel, which seems more like a reflection of Morrissey than a literary device. 

If all of this was not problematic enough, then there are the numerous errors, both in grammar and spelling, that cannot help but make you wonder (if you had not already) how this book was ever published? If it had been anyone apart from Morrissey List of the Lost would have been recycled after a first read by the most junior person in the publishing house. Frankly, it does a discredit to publishers - books should be published on their merit, not the author's fame. Admittedly, yes, there are moments when Morrissey, the lyricist, shines through, but it is only for a sentence and it is surrounded by so much nonsense that it loses a great deal of its magic. 

In short, do not read this book. Trust me on this one.