Boo ya H. Hatterr, how ya like me now?? A little pent up aggression.

What I’ve come to realize in this book are the infinite amounts of allusions to other works. I’m an English major, as many of you also are, and have a hoooorible time trying to understand the works that are almost force fed to me in this latest book. I find myself discouraged most of the time when reading a book who’s allusions I cannot understand, but this book takes that feeling and acts like a crack hording mother who beats her children (obviously with us, the reader, being those crack addicted babies). I’m not sure how to get through this book without throwing it in disgust, but I’ve strangely found a fascination with it. It’s almost built a game for me, ‘find something you do know’ would be the title of it-unfortunately, I’m losing right now, with no real hope of recovery. It’s as if I want to throw the book down Dane Cook style, scream ‘you don’t know me’ and call it some ‘mind ninja’ or say I’ll ‘punch it in the throat.’ It’s absurd, I know, but the shining light from all this is the emphasis I’ve come to realize on words over anything else (mostly because, well, my comprehension is less than those cool Joycian writers who seem to know more than God and can fart Hamlet in their sleep). At some points in the book, I had to stop and realize what absolute beautiful imagery H.Hatterr has in it. For this, I say, H. Hatterr isn’t a complete labyrinth or waste on those with lesser knowledge than gaseous filled 20th century men of old. Ha. At least they’d see some pretty colors, and human organs, imagine what he could mean by libido, and wonder if he’s stupid, smart, or just an enigma.