Product Description

Misty Wilmot has had it. Once a promising young artist, she’s now stuck on an island ruined by tourism, drinking too much and working as a waitress in a hotel. Her husband, a contractor, is in a coma after a suicide attempt, but that doesn’t stop his clients from threatening Misty with lawsuits over a series of vile messages they’ve found on the walls of houses he remodeled.

Suddenly, though, Misty finds her artistic talent returning as she begins a period of compulsive painting. Inspired but confused by this burst of creativity, she soon finds herself a pawn in a larger conspiracy that threatens to cost hundreds of lives. What unfolds is a dark, hilarious story from America’s most inventive nihilist, and Palahniuk’s most impressive work to date.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #17316 in Books
• Published on: 2004-09-14
• Released on: 2004-09-14
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 272 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9781400032815
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

From Publishers Weekly
With a first page that captures the reader hook, line and sinker, Palahniuk (Choke; Lullaby) plunges into the odd predicament of Waytansea Island resident and ex-art student Misty Marie Kleinman, whose husband, Peter, lies comatose in a hospital bed after a suicide attempt. Rooms in summer houses on the mainland that Peter has remodeled start to mysteriously disappear-"The man calling from Long Beach, he says his bathroom is missing"-and Misty, with the help of graphologist Angel Delaporte, discovers that crude and prophetic messages are scrawled across the walls and furniture of the blocked-off chambers. In her new world, where every day is "another longest day of the year," Misty suffers from mysterious physical ailments, which only go away while she is drawing or painting. Her doctor, 12-year-old daughter and mother-in-law, instead of worrying about her health, press her to paint more and more, hinting that her art will save exclusive Waytansea Island from being overrun by tourists. In the meantime, Misty is finding secret messages written under tables and in library books from past island artists issuing bold but vague warnings. With new and changing versions of reality at every turn, the theme of the "tortured artist" is taken to a new level and "everything is important. Every detail. We just don't know why, yet." The novel is something of a departure for Palahniuk, who eschews his blighted urban settings for a sinister resort island, but his catchy, jarring prose, cryptic pronouncements and baroque flights of imagination are instantly recognizable, and his sharp, bizarre meditations on the artistic process make this twisted tale one of his most memorable works to date.
Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Booklist
Palahniuk's sixth novel takes the form of a so-called coma diary written for Peter Wilmot, who is comatose after a running-car-in-garage suicide attempt (he started with the gas tank half-empty, proving his inability to do anything well). While Peter wastes away in a hospital, his family and friends waste away on Waytansea Island ("Everyone's in their own personal coma," Palahniuk writes with his trademark optimism). Peter's art-school-prodigy-turned-bitter-waitress wife, Misty, can't afford the family mansion anymore. Tourists have overrun the whole island, and the old-money families have spent all of their old money. But no one on the island seems to care about their community-wide coma. They just want Misty to paint. She refuses--until she begins to suffer tortuous headaches that only abate when she paints. The islanders seem suspiciously keen on seeing Misty's work continue, and the only way to keep her painting is to keep her miserable. Palahniuk's fans haven't seen plot twists this good since Fight Club, but this book lacks the manic humor that makes his better novels so engrossing. The fantastically grotesque premise propels the story, but the writing lacks the satirical precision that made Palahniuk a hero to young nihilists everywhere (see his take on the travel book, reviewed on p.1858). Instead, it often reads like a self-indulgent complaint about the terrible suffering of artists. Still, excellent plotting and a compelling allegory will satisfy the majority of Palahniukites. John Green
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

Review
?Just for the record, Diary is as hypnotic as a poised cobra. Chuck Palahniuk demonstrates that the most chilling special effects come not from Industrial Light and Magic but from the words of a gifted writer.?
? Ira Levin, author of Rosemary?s Baby


From the Hardcover edition. -- Review

Customer Reviews

Chuck, Chuck Palahniuk, Wrote a Book and It Did S*ck
July 9

Today, the reader from Harrisburg finished Chuck's novel "Diary." The novel that never really convinced him was a diary, as it never stooped to that convention of writing in the first person. He read the awkward switching from third person to second person in Chuck's novel.

Your novel, Chuck.

Apparently, you are in some sort of ironic writer's coma. He is. You are. See how disconcerting this can be, carried out over 250 plus pages of his novel?

Your novel, Chuck?

If you removed all the third-to-second person clarification prose, this job drops an easy 50 pages. Take out all the adipose ramblings of subcutaneous fat and musculataure, which begin cute and end tedious, maybe we're down to a tight novella, Chuck. You are. He is.

In the middle, his novel picks up something resembling dramatic steam. He stayed the impulse to throw the book aside, half-read, Chuck. Your reader, the guy from Harrisburg. But nothing too awfully surprising happens on Waytansea Island. He, your reader, just waits and sees that you have some clever almost Nietzschean idea of eternal return and artistic hell. Did he, I mean you, Chuck, the writer of this poorly executed novel, intend some statement about artistic sacrifice? Or did he, you, I mean, intend just a good read? Because on the latter you failed, and on the former, you failed, and about the best I can summon is that you meant well, and you aren't Danielle Steele or that basic ilk.

My impression was that in picking up a Palahniuk novel, my first Palahniuk novel, his first Palahniuk novel -- your novel, Chuck -- I'd find crisp writing, challenging plot developments, and a refreshing, even bracing worldview.

Instead, he found a tendency to repeat phrases about "What you don't understand you can make mean anything" and suchlike drivel. Why didn't he simply say "What I couldn't write, maybe you can just go think up and attribute to me?"

Why didn't you, Chuck?

Because his characters never come alive. They seem like exercises best left in notebooks.

Your characters, Chuck. Misty, Peter, Tabbi, Grace. Harrow. Angel. Oh, I can name them, but ask me again in a week. Ask him again, and he'll have forgotten them. He will. I will. Me. The reader. Remember the reader, Chuck? Chuck, that rhymes with "buck," that comes from movie rights to half-hearted attempts to replicate the vigor of "Fight Club?"

Caveat emptor. No more will I read his novels. Your novels, Chuck. Even if you awake from your coma to read my diary of your "Diary." His "Diary." Your sloppily written, flimsy dreck that should only garner one Amazon star but for the fact that worse writing does exist, sadly.

When he finished your book, Chuck, the reader from Harrisburg threw it aside and took a nap. The nap was good, at least. Later, he wrote a review on Amazon. About your book. I did. About your book. Blecch.

It really is that bad
For those browsing through all of these reviews here and looking at the surprising number of poor reviews for it, I just wanted to post a quick review to add my agreement that this is easily Chuck's worst book and also probably one of the worst books I've ever read.

Please understand that I am a huge fan of Chuck Palahniuk. I live in the Portland area and never miss him when I have a chance to go and see him talk and sign, and I have read all of his books. My favorites are Fight Club, Survivor, Fugitives And Refugees and Lullaby...I'm not a huge fan of Invisible Monsters or Choke but they both have their unique charms and are entirely readable. He's a talented writer and an all-around great guy, but if this book had been his first then nobody would know who he was. In fact, I would go so far as to say he never would have been published.

This book, from start to finish, is BARELY readable. Just to make it as straightforward as possible, I'll organize my major problems with the book point by point...(It's worth noting that the remainder of this review contains very minor spoilers...I'll keep them as light as possible)

-The book is really poorly organized. While I do appreciate an author's need to try different things and push the boundaries of their craft, Diary turns out to be a case study in why your Fiction Writing 101 teacher told you to never, ever change perspective mid-story. Once you have a perspective established, you stick to it. From sentence to sentence (for the first 3/4 of the book, anyway, a point at which Chuck seems to forget about what he was trying to do or just stops caring, and switches almost entirely to 3rd person), perspective changes back and forth...often, statements are repeated to the point of redundancy from different perspectives. It makes for a fairly jarring (and boring) reading experience.

-I got the impression several times that Chuck was trying to tell two stories at the same time, and the result is a confusing mess. On the one hand, we have the very genuine mourning and depression of Misty Marie, who is trying to recover from some very serious traumatic events that happened off-stage before the start of the book. On the other, we have the absolutely ridiculous "fairy tale" aspect of Waytansea island. The theme of both of these stories clashes horribly, never really meshing and never really working.

-Speaking of the fairy tale bits...these tend to dominate the latter half of the book. Chuck stretches way, way beyond reasonable expectations for the reader to suspend disbelief. When you finally get to the point of the book when the revelations begin to trickle down, and the protagonist tries desperately to fight against what's happening to her, you'll be saying "Give me a break!" more often than you'd probably like. Virtually everything that happens once we get into the climax doesn't make any sense at all. I am sorely tempted to point out specific examples, so ridiculous, unbelievable and poorly constructed/thought-out are the climactic events of the book, but I hate heavy spoilers in reviews so I'll restrain myself.

-The ending. THE ENDING. The last five or ten pages of this book, ESPECIALLY the last page, has got to be the dumbest, most derivative ending I've ever sat through. What a COP-OUT!!! I'll just say this: if you DO pick up this book, you're going to go through it hoping that, on some level, Palahniuk is going to deliver at some point...turn things around. All you will feel after reading that incredibly stupid final page will be disappointment, frustration and anger at yourself for sticking with it for no reason. There ain't no pay-off, folks!

What isn't a confusing mess or a bizarre and stupid "curse" story is paint-by-numbers Palahniuk that any one of his fans could throw together without any help from the author. You've got your heavily repeated statements to drive his point home. His over-eagerness to share useless trivia he acquired while researching the book. His fragmented sentences and overly short chapter breaks. All things that are charming and amusing in his other books, but here they feel forced and pointless. It's almost as though Palahniuk is satirizing himself.

In short, what we have here is easily the worst of Palahniuk books, and also one of the lamest ducks in modern American literature. If you're a Palahniuk fan, you've probably already read it and drawn your conclusions. If you've never read him before, or you aren't a fan of the man's entire catalog, avoid at all costs! ANY of Palahniuk's other work stands head and shoulders above this drudgery!

where do you get your lack of inspiration
It's disheartening to say it but Diary is disappointing. It starts in a very intriguing way, like all Chuck Palahniuk novels, and soon becomes your average thriller novel involving philosophical issues. Name dropping here shows that the author made his research, but it often feels misplaced and repetitive.
In the end, i got the weird impression of having read a cross between Dolores Claiborne and Salem's lot meets Fight Club.
I fear, because i admire his talent, that M.Palahniuk may not be ill from the stendhal syndrome but from best seller syndrome : being now (justly) successful he needs to deliver a manuscript each year.
Diary is fun to read but leaves no trace maybe because it was wirtten with too much haste.