I was thinking after my last post that as a cynic about romantic love, I read an awful lot of love-themed literature. Well, Choke was the ultimate detour of that trajectory. It showcases the perversion of all manifestations of love: motherly love, platonic love, romantic love and even God's love. While reading it I thought it was painfully ugly and horribly depressing. Yet, I can't deny that I was mesmerized - like watching a car wreck. To his credit, Palahniuk constructed the perfect credible setting for the most incredible antics as Victor Mancini's life rotates around a care facility for mentally deranged women, a live museum of 18th century Colonial America and sexaholic group meetings. And his characters, although worlds away from being redeemable, are fantastic. I particularly loved the image of his housemate/best friend rock collector who came home with a pile of rocks everyday and slowly filled up the house, like they were living in an hourglass.

It's odd that I began this post thinking I would berate the novel and complain about the time I wasted on it. I was going to rant about how far-removed it is from reality and how the whole selling point was merely in the shock value of the things they did for love, acceptance and even sanity. I was going to say I hated it. Yet thinking back on it now, I didn't hate it. I think I have a lot of their insanity in me and I think there are times when the things they did are merely slight exaggerations of what I do everyday to create order out of this chaotic world and its society.