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Dot in the Universe
"A blackly comedic fable" (Michiko Kakutani, New York Times) from the Booker shortlisted author of Ducks, Newburyport.
It's your worst instead of being dead, you're alive!
Dot thinks she's perfect, with her blond hair, pointy nose, and pink skin. She lives on the east coast of England with her magnificent hubby, cooking him gourmet meals and crashing the car. So one day she decides to End It All. But-Dot BLOWS it!
After a brief sojourn in the underworld (populated by "underaged, underdeveloped underlings all, understated in their undershirts and UNDERSTANDING VERY LITTLE"), Dot is reincarnated, first as a possum, and then as a girl in Ohio. A hilarious and poignant journey through our puny universe, this is a masterpiece of disquiet.
It's your worst instead of being dead, you're alive!
Dot thinks she's perfect, with her blond hair, pointy nose, and pink skin. She lives on the east coast of England with her magnificent hubby, cooking him gourmet meals and crashing the car. So one day she decides to End It All. But-Dot BLOWS it!
After a brief sojourn in the underworld (populated by "underaged, underdeveloped underlings all, understated in their undershirts and UNDERSTANDING VERY LITTLE"), Dot is reincarnated, first as a possum, and then as a girl in Ohio. A hilarious and poignant journey through our puny universe, this is a masterpiece of disquiet.
209 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2003
10 people are currently reading
929 people want to read
About the author
Lucy Ellmann
18 books385 followersLucy Ellmann was born in Evanston, Illinois, the daughter of biographer Richard Ellmann and writer Mary Ellmann (née Donahue). She moved to England at the age of 13 and was educated at Falmouth School of Art (Foundation degree, 1975), Essex University (BA, 1980), and the Courtauld Institute of Art (MA, 1981).
Her highly-praised autobiographical first novel, Sweet Desserts, was awarded the Guardian Fiction Prize. Both her second book, Varying Degrees of Hoplessness, and her third, Man or Mango?, were shortlisted for the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, while her fourth, Dot in the Universe, was longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction and shortlisted for the Believer Book Award.
Lucy Ellmann is a regular contributor of articles on art and fiction to Artforum, Modern Painters, the Guardian, the Listener, the New Statesman, and the Times Literary Supplement. She is also a screenwriter and was a Hawthornden Fellow in 1992.
Her highly-praised autobiographical first novel, Sweet Desserts, was awarded the Guardian Fiction Prize. Both her second book, Varying Degrees of Hoplessness, and her third, Man or Mango?, were shortlisted for the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, while her fourth, Dot in the Universe, was longlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction and shortlisted for the Believer Book Award.
Lucy Ellmann is a regular contributor of articles on art and fiction to Artforum, Modern Painters, the Guardian, the Listener, the New Statesman, and the Times Literary Supplement. She is also a screenwriter and was a Hawthornden Fellow in 1992.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 63 reviews
November 9, 2009
Lucy Ellmann’s 2003 novel Dot in the Universe is a blistering tour de force of splenetic human insight, knee-bending satire, relentless stylistic abuse, and profound intelligence.
The novel centres around Dot – a semi-human shell devoid of any discernible life. Dot is a speck of nothingness aware of her basic insignificance in the cosmos and her status as merely another ‘dot’ in the universe. She ekes out a depressive bourgeois existence in the suburb of Jaywick Sands (which is routinely savaged for its suicidal dullness), having unfulfilling sex and bumping off old ladies. She then decides, upon fleeing her philandering husband, to take her life by leaping off the Forth Road Bridge.
Fair enough. Throughout the remaining 150 pages, she enters the bureaucratic nightmare of the underworld, haunts her former lover to retrieve proof of her ID, and wins the most exciting death contest. Her prize (after a brief and unsuccessful stint as a possum) is reincarnation in an equally depressive American suburb. Dot is, it seems, unsuited for this unfathomable world. She finds love, at last, through an incestuous union with her brother, but he – alas – goes on to kill himself despite being a scientific genius. So it goes.
Ellmann punctuates this bleak-sounding tale with shards of LOUD and CAPITALISED humour. The NY Times compares this style to a friend who writes ranting letters which seem to have their own insane logic, and I find this accurate – Lucy wallops the reader with her blunt vitriol, which is wildly entertaining and witty, but which BEGS to be taken seriously.
There is such FURY (I can’t help it – it’s addictive) behind Ellmann’s wit that makes this novel highly re-readable for almost any occasion, but which forces us to confront what despicable, sagging lumps we are. She directs her spite towards scientists (there’s a rant in here that will outrage devout realists) and tears impetuously through the innumerable inane quirks of existence – exposing the fundamental fraud of human endeavour. Often within the same paragraph.
Ellmann’s work is a strange cross between vicious stand-up comedy (Alexei Sayle or Bill Hicks springs to mind), Wodehousian whimsy, and the shrugging misanthropy of Kurt Vonnegut. Quite a cocktail! The packaging of her books suggests postmodern chick-lit, but the scope of this work is too broad, and Dot is too inscrutable a heroine to attract that audience. Plus, the central theme of this novel is DEATH (that old favourite), and the challenge this hurdle presents to people attempting to fill the LIFE portion they are allotted.
Dot in the Universe is almost certainly a modern classic. An infectious and cantankerous romp through quite profound territory, handled with humility, moral outrage and cheeky slabs of misanthropy. Any novel dealing with grand themes that leaves me feeling ELATED when I should be feeling MISERABLE is pulling the right strings. As Ellmann indicates, there is a great deal of mirth to be mined in self-loathing.
So I recommended this book to every mortal. If you’re even remotely human, you’ll take enormous pleasure in this dark, deranged and sublime comédie humaine. Ellmann has the closing WORDS! (From p13):
“Dot in the universe. Dot was insignificant, but who isn’t? So much EFFORT we put into life, all the feeding, clothing, educating, medicating, fornicating, masturbating, cleansing and conversing. All the ANXIETY. When it doesn’t really matter if a single person gets happy. The universe DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN.”
The novel centres around Dot – a semi-human shell devoid of any discernible life. Dot is a speck of nothingness aware of her basic insignificance in the cosmos and her status as merely another ‘dot’ in the universe. She ekes out a depressive bourgeois existence in the suburb of Jaywick Sands (which is routinely savaged for its suicidal dullness), having unfulfilling sex and bumping off old ladies. She then decides, upon fleeing her philandering husband, to take her life by leaping off the Forth Road Bridge.
Fair enough. Throughout the remaining 150 pages, she enters the bureaucratic nightmare of the underworld, haunts her former lover to retrieve proof of her ID, and wins the most exciting death contest. Her prize (after a brief and unsuccessful stint as a possum) is reincarnation in an equally depressive American suburb. Dot is, it seems, unsuited for this unfathomable world. She finds love, at last, through an incestuous union with her brother, but he – alas – goes on to kill himself despite being a scientific genius. So it goes.
Ellmann punctuates this bleak-sounding tale with shards of LOUD and CAPITALISED humour. The NY Times compares this style to a friend who writes ranting letters which seem to have their own insane logic, and I find this accurate – Lucy wallops the reader with her blunt vitriol, which is wildly entertaining and witty, but which BEGS to be taken seriously.
There is such FURY (I can’t help it – it’s addictive) behind Ellmann’s wit that makes this novel highly re-readable for almost any occasion, but which forces us to confront what despicable, sagging lumps we are. She directs her spite towards scientists (there’s a rant in here that will outrage devout realists) and tears impetuously through the innumerable inane quirks of existence – exposing the fundamental fraud of human endeavour. Often within the same paragraph.
Ellmann’s work is a strange cross between vicious stand-up comedy (Alexei Sayle or Bill Hicks springs to mind), Wodehousian whimsy, and the shrugging misanthropy of Kurt Vonnegut. Quite a cocktail! The packaging of her books suggests postmodern chick-lit, but the scope of this work is too broad, and Dot is too inscrutable a heroine to attract that audience. Plus, the central theme of this novel is DEATH (that old favourite), and the challenge this hurdle presents to people attempting to fill the LIFE portion they are allotted.
Dot in the Universe is almost certainly a modern classic. An infectious and cantankerous romp through quite profound territory, handled with humility, moral outrage and cheeky slabs of misanthropy. Any novel dealing with grand themes that leaves me feeling ELATED when I should be feeling MISERABLE is pulling the right strings. As Ellmann indicates, there is a great deal of mirth to be mined in self-loathing.
So I recommended this book to every mortal. If you’re even remotely human, you’ll take enormous pleasure in this dark, deranged and sublime comédie humaine. Ellmann has the closing WORDS! (From p13):
“Dot in the universe. Dot was insignificant, but who isn’t? So much EFFORT we put into life, all the feeding, clothing, educating, medicating, fornicating, masturbating, cleansing and conversing. All the ANXIETY. When it doesn’t really matter if a single person gets happy. The universe DOESN’T GIVE A DAMN.”
January 17, 2014
I can’t RESIST writing a review in the style of THIS weird-ass book, as after two HUNDRED PAGES you start THINKING like the deranged narrator and can’t STOP. Words are capitalised RANDOMLY throughout. That’s odd enough, but now imagine the WORST-TEMPERED person ever, who is FED UP to the back TEETH and complaining about PRETTY MUCH EVERYTHING, who won MISS CONTEMPTUOUS UBERGRUMP four years running, but who reserves particular VITUPERATION for favourite topics like SCIENTISTS and AMERICA. Then imagine this lunatic telling the cartoony story of DOT Butser, a sexy 40 year old English lady who likes to kill OLD WOMEN because they're intensely annoying and who then commits suicide. After which come her AMUSING ADVENTURES in the afterlife.
( I’d love to hear the audio book of this novel, to see if the reader YELLS all the words in capitals like they have Tourette’s. That would be hilarious. For FIVE MINUTES.)
So yeah, this is an extended stand-up comedy sketch. As for instance, Billy Connelly in his early days had a 20 minute monologue based on the idea that the Bible contained a misprint, and when it said Jesus was born in Galilee, it should have been Gallowgate, which is a rough suburb of Glasgow. He then tells the story of the Crucifixion as if it happened in Gallowgate. This book is like that. It’s riffs, rants, and lists.
THE NARRATOR TELLS US THE KIND OF PEOPLE YOU FIND IN THE AFTERLIFE (which is not Heaven, not Hell, not anything really, but grimy and disorganised and unpleasant all round)
People who WHISTLED (no need for this). People who worked for Disney in any capacity. Actors, farmers, nerds, fakes, sportsmen, cheapskates, world leaders, snobs, model train addicts, clingy types, tragic tots, evil grannies, people who specialised in OPERATIC LAUGHTER. Guys who believed in GAIA. Guys who TALKED about their belief in Gaia. The manufacturers of ARTIFICIAL FLAVOURS, people who cook nut loaves [and on and on]
THE NARRATOR ON AMERICA (Americans – look away now!!)
America’s the only place in the world where fat people feel comfortable. In America fat people even get MARRIED. They exist only to stuff WHOPPER SUBS into themselves in order to achieve ever-greater INSENSIBILITY. In a spiral of EATING, TALKING ABOUT FOOD and GIVING food away to the POOR, they somehow convince themselves they have free will.
So you see you get the comedy, but sometimes at the drop of a hat, it all veers off into something like genuine unpleasantness. Laudatory reviews tell you that this novel is very angry (like that's a good thing) and yes, it is, about scientists (they treat animals disgracefully, and they’re smug) and Americans (see above) and the general pointlessness of human life.
I think Lucy Ellmann is a bit like JAZZ – you get it or you don’t. I kind of half got it and when I was getting it I thought it ROCKED and when I didn’t I thought it was STUPID. But whatever it was, it was different.
( I’d love to hear the audio book of this novel, to see if the reader YELLS all the words in capitals like they have Tourette’s. That would be hilarious. For FIVE MINUTES.)
So yeah, this is an extended stand-up comedy sketch. As for instance, Billy Connelly in his early days had a 20 minute monologue based on the idea that the Bible contained a misprint, and when it said Jesus was born in Galilee, it should have been Gallowgate, which is a rough suburb of Glasgow. He then tells the story of the Crucifixion as if it happened in Gallowgate. This book is like that. It’s riffs, rants, and lists.
THE NARRATOR TELLS US THE KIND OF PEOPLE YOU FIND IN THE AFTERLIFE (which is not Heaven, not Hell, not anything really, but grimy and disorganised and unpleasant all round)
People who WHISTLED (no need for this). People who worked for Disney in any capacity. Actors, farmers, nerds, fakes, sportsmen, cheapskates, world leaders, snobs, model train addicts, clingy types, tragic tots, evil grannies, people who specialised in OPERATIC LAUGHTER. Guys who believed in GAIA. Guys who TALKED about their belief in Gaia. The manufacturers of ARTIFICIAL FLAVOURS, people who cook nut loaves [and on and on]
THE NARRATOR ON AMERICA (Americans – look away now!!)
America’s the only place in the world where fat people feel comfortable. In America fat people even get MARRIED. They exist only to stuff WHOPPER SUBS into themselves in order to achieve ever-greater INSENSIBILITY. In a spiral of EATING, TALKING ABOUT FOOD and GIVING food away to the POOR, they somehow convince themselves they have free will.
So you see you get the comedy, but sometimes at the drop of a hat, it all veers off into something like genuine unpleasantness. Laudatory reviews tell you that this novel is very angry (like that's a good thing) and yes, it is, about scientists (they treat animals disgracefully, and they’re smug) and Americans (see above) and the general pointlessness of human life.
I think Lucy Ellmann is a bit like JAZZ – you get it or you don’t. I kind of half got it and when I was getting it I thought it ROCKED and when I didn’t I thought it was STUPID. But whatever it was, it was different.
November 6, 2019
Ellmann's extraordinary Ducks, Newburyport is still my most memorable read of the year, and having read only one of her previous books, I was on the lookout for more when I found this one. Although it is quirky, often very funny and exuberant, I didn't enjoy this one as much.
The surface story starts off with a fairly straight satire of a failing marriage of Dot, an American woman and her English husband who brings her back to his home in the distinctly unglamorous seaside location of Jaywick.
About halfway through things get a lot more surreal.
I had two main problems with the book - firstly a stylistic quirk means that on average one word in almost EVERY sentence appears in UPPER-CASE. This might have worked well used more sparingly but soon became very DISTRACTING.
Secondly (as she has also mentioned in some of her interviews and readings about Ducks), Ellmann has very strong negative feelings about science and scientists which I fundamentally disagree with. This theme is much more prominent here than in Ducks. I understand that this feeling is primarily driven by vivisection and weapons research, and by the lack of respect shown by some scientists towards the arts, but without pure science we would be nowhere, and in my view a lack of trust in science is a clear contributor to some of the most pernicious political movements of recent years, notably Trump, Brexit and the idea of "fake news".
The surface story starts off with a fairly straight satire of a failing marriage of Dot, an American woman and her English husband who brings her back to his home in the distinctly unglamorous seaside location of Jaywick.
About halfway through things get a lot more surreal.
I had two main problems with the book - firstly a stylistic quirk means that on average one word in almost EVERY sentence appears in UPPER-CASE. This might have worked well used more sparingly but soon became very DISTRACTING.
Secondly (as she has also mentioned in some of her interviews and readings about Ducks), Ellmann has very strong negative feelings about science and scientists which I fundamentally disagree with. This theme is much more prominent here than in Ducks. I understand that this feeling is primarily driven by vivisection and weapons research, and by the lack of respect shown by some scientists towards the arts, but without pure science we would be nowhere, and in my view a lack of trust in science is a clear contributor to some of the most pernicious political movements of recent years, notably Trump, Brexit and the idea of "fake news".
July 22, 2019
My most fervent thanks to everyone who has contributed to the buzz surrounding Lucy Ellmann. If not for that divine intervention (and perfect timing!), doubtlessly I would not have mined this gem buried in the shelves during a recent (and all too rare) book buying bonanza. So, thanks!
Because she is (I'm doing it...) INCREDIBLE! Seriously, I can scarcely imagine asking for more from a writer, and whatever that unknown quantity is, it seems she's doling out hefty doses of it nowadays. Boiling pitch perfect.
Just in case I need to add definition to this wild gush of directionless praise, when reading I revere, in short: articulate spleen, scathing wit, lucid and novel observation, erudite salacity, salacious erudition, performative self-awareness, formal experimentation, infinite fathomings of joy and dread and ecstasy and despair, the everyday, the once, the never... On the strength of this book alone Ellmann readies her place in my literary pantheon. October 7, when I pick up Ducks, Newburyport from the almighty A Cappella Books in Atlanta, can't come soon enough.
Because she is (I'm doing it...) INCREDIBLE! Seriously, I can scarcely imagine asking for more from a writer, and whatever that unknown quantity is, it seems she's doling out hefty doses of it nowadays. Boiling pitch perfect.
Just in case I need to add definition to this wild gush of directionless praise, when reading I revere, in short: articulate spleen, scathing wit, lucid and novel observation, erudite salacity, salacious erudition, performative self-awareness, formal experimentation, infinite fathomings of joy and dread and ecstasy and despair, the everyday, the once, the never... On the strength of this book alone Ellmann readies her place in my literary pantheon. October 7, when I pick up Ducks, Newburyport from the almighty A Cappella Books in Atlanta, can't come soon enough.
March 10, 2020
It had its moments, sure. I have also wondered what a mountain of everything I've ever eaten (or drank, or thrown out, etc.) would like like. There is an undercurrent of humour in this novel that never quite pulled me along, though, because the writing style grated on my nerves in a BIG way. It was my go-to read when I was too tired/tipsy to read the good stuff but wanted to flip some pages anyhow.
A slight book means a slight disappointment. What should I expect from the massive Ducks, Newburyport? Perhaps someone out there has read both and can help sway me!
A slight book means a slight disappointment. What should I expect from the massive Ducks, Newburyport? Perhaps someone out there has read both and can help sway me!
December 20, 2015
Very strange: a sort of strangeness that, even when you expect strangeness, it's still strange. (Enough strangeness for semantic satiation yet?) Lucy Ellman's simple sentences of rage, mundane detail and absurdity suggest - pardon my psychobabble - someone channelling their inner teenager and knowingly so. Her style is infectious; no surprise there are several pastiche reviews and comments, and I could tell within a few pages of reading that it would be hard not to channel her when writing about her. (Even if I do find it easier to fall into the multi-clause, multi-bracket forms of mid-recent Nicola Barker, who has a somewhat similar tone and oddness as Ellmann, within more convoluted structures.) I could have done without the block caps though, so I will. I mostly pretended they weren't there; the anger and ridiculousness still came through, but breathing was calmer.
The book was addictive, despite containing the scene I'd found most horrifying in any book read since joining GR. Wondering if it would haunt me as much as does a documentary about Spanish blood fiestas I saw as a kid, I didn't try and sleep until I dozed off naturally, so I didn't have to think about it. As it's already fading a little, I hope it'll go the way of the bit about the pig's head in that Zoe Pilger book - now I can't recall any details about that except that it was the bit about the pig's head in that Zoe Pilger book, which I hadn't thought about for months and I know wasn't anywhere near so bad as this. If you bothered to infer that the scene is about people doing something horrific to animals, you'd be correct. But that's only a very small part of the book. And . [Contains plot point, no gory details.]
It's a bizarre existentialist / reincarnation journey with a sincere yet splenetic immersion in the kind of small town / suburban existences most comic novelists simply mock. Ellmann understands that there's a level on which it might be satisfying to be a Julia Carling lookalike who enjoys continually redecorating her house (a lot of intelligent people wouldn't), and also about many other bigger and weirder questions. I like the uninhibited way that sex and bodily functions are mentioned as if they were any other normal part of life, neither with any gravity that tries to emphasise that, nor with repetitive schoolboy humour. And the characters often enjoy sex as well. It's altogether more physical, embodied than a lot of novels. Even when people are in an afterlife. I'm also a fan of her lists; a favourite was the contents of what I call a utility drawer, the sort where you keep string etc. It was for the most part blisteringly, hilariously accurate yet, for I think these habits are inherited, and I find them perhaps too fascinating, it had what to me are category errors, by also containing items of food and stationery.
The book is a rollercoaster of low and high culture and bits of science, can just be enjoyed for the ride, but there's stuff to think about if you want. The narrative voice is kind of crazed, deliberately so, and yet and because of that I got the sense that this author would be a great person to be friends with, regardless of a few political differences - there's such energy, humour, directness and caring about stuff here.
Ellmann - daughter of Wilde biographer Richard Ellmann (her birthday is 2 days after Wilde's, deliberate??) - is so unusual in her style it seems inevitable her work is loved or hated; I for one intend to read more.
The book was addictive, despite containing the scene I'd found most horrifying in any book read since joining GR. Wondering if it would haunt me as much as does a documentary about Spanish blood fiestas I saw as a kid, I didn't try and sleep until I dozed off naturally, so I didn't have to think about it. As it's already fading a little, I hope it'll go the way of the bit about the pig's head in that Zoe Pilger book - now I can't recall any details about that except that it was the bit about the pig's head in that Zoe Pilger book, which I hadn't thought about for months and I know wasn't anywhere near so bad as this. If you bothered to infer that the scene is about people doing something horrific to animals, you'd be correct. But that's only a very small part of the book. And . [Contains plot point, no gory details.]
It's a bizarre existentialist / reincarnation journey with a sincere yet splenetic immersion in the kind of small town / suburban existences most comic novelists simply mock. Ellmann understands that there's a level on which it might be satisfying to be a Julia Carling lookalike who enjoys continually redecorating her house (a lot of intelligent people wouldn't), and also about many other bigger and weirder questions. I like the uninhibited way that sex and bodily functions are mentioned as if they were any other normal part of life, neither with any gravity that tries to emphasise that, nor with repetitive schoolboy humour. And the characters often enjoy sex as well. It's altogether more physical, embodied than a lot of novels. Even when people are in an afterlife. I'm also a fan of her lists; a favourite was the contents of what I call a utility drawer, the sort where you keep string etc. It was for the most part blisteringly, hilariously accurate yet, for I think these habits are inherited, and I find them perhaps too fascinating, it had what to me are category errors, by also containing items of food and stationery.
The book is a rollercoaster of low and high culture and bits of science, can just be enjoyed for the ride, but there's stuff to think about if you want. The narrative voice is kind of crazed, deliberately so, and yet and because of that I got the sense that this author would be a great person to be friends with, regardless of a few political differences - there's such energy, humour, directness and caring about stuff here.
Ellmann - daughter of Wilde biographer Richard Ellmann (her birthday is 2 days after Wilde's, deliberate??) - is so unusual in her style it seems inevitable her work is loved or hated; I for one intend to read more.
August 23, 2011
Postmodernist take on existentialism, and so on. Quirky, witty, humorous, disdainful, twisted, sad and then some. About DEATH, one damn original AFTERLIFE (with pictures!), REBIRTH and how none of it MATTERS.
Don't forget to read MJ's PERFECT review. Dot liked perfection.
Over to Lucy Ellmann.
Don't forget to read MJ's PERFECT review. Dot liked perfection.
Over to Lucy Ellmann.
October 11, 2019
A lot of fun but I felt it kind of lost its way a little
February 12, 2025
Watch my BookTube deep dive on
the weirdest Women's Prize nominees
. 👀
"She had no regrets as she fell but clasped her arms tightly over her breasts for fear of them being TORN OFF on impact. There are aesthetic considerations even in death. Even in DOT."
From the woman who brought us the Booker Prize nominated literary behemoth, Ducks, Newburyport, comes Dot in the Universe, in which a forty year old English woman (who likes to murder elderly ladies and steal their tea cozies) decides to off herself, after which a bizarre cycle of reincarnation begins.
This darkly comedic little book is peppered with musings about the pointlessness of life, rants about scientists, and a hot take on America’s obesity epidemic, among other things. It features elements that some people may find disturbing or upsetting, such as .
Throughout the book, WORDS are randomly CAPITALIZED for no DISCERNABLE reason. I didn't mind this stylistic choice, though I wish I could have puzzled out a reason for it. Did it enhance the story? Not really. Did it distract from the story? Not really. Did it serve to emphasize that our narrator is a little unhinged? Perhaps.
I didn’t always know what to make of this book, but I was nonetheless amused, and I especially enjoyed the ending, which offers a satisfying full-circle moment that sent me running back to the beginning of the book to reread the first chapter.
"She had no regrets as she fell but clasped her arms tightly over her breasts for fear of them being TORN OFF on impact. There are aesthetic considerations even in death. Even in DOT."
From the woman who brought us the Booker Prize nominated literary behemoth, Ducks, Newburyport, comes Dot in the Universe, in which a forty year old English woman (who likes to murder elderly ladies and steal their tea cozies) decides to off herself, after which a bizarre cycle of reincarnation begins.
This darkly comedic little book is peppered with musings about the pointlessness of life, rants about scientists, and a hot take on America’s obesity epidemic, among other things. It features elements that some people may find disturbing or upsetting, such as .
Throughout the book, WORDS are randomly CAPITALIZED for no DISCERNABLE reason. I didn't mind this stylistic choice, though I wish I could have puzzled out a reason for it. Did it enhance the story? Not really. Did it distract from the story? Not really. Did it serve to emphasize that our narrator is a little unhinged? Perhaps.
I didn’t always know what to make of this book, but I was nonetheless amused, and I especially enjoyed the ending, which offers a satisfying full-circle moment that sent me running back to the beginning of the book to reread the first chapter.
October 21, 2019
3.5, rounded down.
Even given the outré nature of Ellmann's oeuvre, this is a decidedly odd duck, and am afraid I didn't cotton to it as much as her other novels (or maybe reading all of them in quick succession is burning me out on them?) It's kind of an unholy feminist amalgamation of Candide and Inferno, filtered through Ellmann's sui generis sensibility. Not awful, but in the lower tier for me of Lucy-ness.
Even given the outré nature of Ellmann's oeuvre, this is a decidedly odd duck, and am afraid I didn't cotton to it as much as her other novels (or maybe reading all of them in quick succession is burning me out on them?) It's kind of an unholy feminist amalgamation of Candide and Inferno, filtered through Ellmann's sui generis sensibility. Not awful, but in the lower tier for me of Lucy-ness.
March 12, 2021
Got this soon after finishing Ducks, Newburyport in summer 2019. Interesting to see what must be the author's strong interest in pies. This is a shorter Voltaire-ish version with a formal tic I won't copy here but that, like with Ducks, Newburyport, is difficult to RESIST. Oh shit, I didn't resist it. Bawdy, crazy, honed language, a narrative spirit able and willing to go anywhere and lordie does this go everywhere, although for me it felt like the zanier it got the more I found my eyes no longer focusing on it, not so much no longer willing to suspend disbelief but really no longer caring about Dot or even the at-first-giddily-infectious-etc-but-less-so-with-every-page LANGUAGE. Otherwise admirable for its energy and audacity.
December 29, 2019
This short novel is a work of genius. Told from a single perspective, the mordant wit is searing and profound while remaining consistently engaging and affecting. It perpetually surprises. Everything from a droll conversation to a grocery list sparkles with the author's intelligent insights.
Human nature and anxious preoccupations are explored in the daily life of our middle-aged, opinionated narrator.
Where has this author been hiding all these years? Every sentence comments, entices and advances the subtle narrative links. It is simply a portrait of modern life, seen through a distorted lens, where reality blends with irreverent fantasies. Unexpected observations are strung together with wry, dry humor reminiscent of Alasdair Gray. It even partakes of the flavors of European travel literature, offering a unique perspective on the absurdity of modern conveniences, interactions and relationships.
The book might be seen as hateful or daring by some, but in my opinion, it is simply honest.
I am compelled to read the rest of Lucy Ellmann's books now.
Human nature and anxious preoccupations are explored in the daily life of our middle-aged, opinionated narrator.
Where has this author been hiding all these years? Every sentence comments, entices and advances the subtle narrative links. It is simply a portrait of modern life, seen through a distorted lens, where reality blends with irreverent fantasies. Unexpected observations are strung together with wry, dry humor reminiscent of Alasdair Gray. It even partakes of the flavors of European travel literature, offering a unique perspective on the absurdity of modern conveniences, interactions and relationships.
The book might be seen as hateful or daring by some, but in my opinion, it is simply honest.
I am compelled to read the rest of Lucy Ellmann's books now.
October 12, 2020
My least favorite of Ellmann's novels so far.
August 1, 2009
Hmm. I'm still reeling from this book, caught in a vortex of trying to figure out whether or not I liked it. While Dot is a very real, very strange, very screwed up character, her Universe (at times) can be very deep and heartfelt. I didn't care for the odd way Ellman used random words in all caps, though I'm sure she had a reason to do so; it just messed with my OCD sensibilities. I didn't feel very fulfilled by the book; it wasn't shaped up and given an ending (one way or the other). Right at the climactic point, Ellman changes gears and goes back to the beginning of Dot's life. Ultimately, I found myself still wondering what happened to Dot in the end.
July 18, 2020
Coulda been an all time favorite if the story was anything to kvell over. Lucy Ellmann is a brilliant writer, her experiments in style feel deeply candid, invitingly humane, and dispel preconceived notions of the literary and the arcane, its novelty consisting of never taking itself too seriously (since that is how we arrive with Dot-esque and John-ish creatures in the first place). Filled with vindicating takes on obsessive food culture, parenthood, beauty, sex, death, Americans, science and the pouches some animals carry their young in, this is definitely among the funniest books I've read.
If the pages of this book could look back at it's reader, the last page of every chapter would have seen a jovial grin and a nod upon this goofus' maw. To wit:
If the pages of this book could look back at it's reader, the last page of every chapter would have seen a jovial grin and a nod upon this goofus' maw. To wit:
"What's Science ever done for the Rare Spotted Cuscus except CUT IT UP and give it a Latine name (Phalanger Maculatus-- yeah, great)? What's Science actually done to stop everything going WRONG? Where's science when there's a strange man FARTING IN YOUR BED? Where's Science when you're SIXTY, still craving your dead father's approval (though you'd make do with your FATHER IN-LAW's)? Where's Science when you're walking down a hot city street after drinking too much MADEIRA?
WHERE THE FUCK IS SCIENCE?
The whole world respects ONLY Sceince now! Every spare penny goes on keeping it afloat. Science will OUTLIVE us, their computers babbling to each other and checking themselves for viruses long after WE'VE ALL DIED of the drugs scientists invetned and the radiation they released. What good will it do us then that they classified every species or built AEROPLANES? That won't bring your dearest AUNT back. It won't illogically remind you of APRICOT NECTAR.
Seek wasteland, seek wilderness. Cling to anything they haven't EXAMINED yet."
October 21, 2021
Funny, cosmic, crass, bitter, and beautifully structured. It’ll surprise and shock you at least five times. Probably more. Yet it’s all breezy and fast and hilarious no matter how dire some of the turns and topics.
March 21, 2012
"The sun rose suddenly, much too FAST, missing out on the best bit, when time creaks on its hinges: twilight. It is such BULLSHIT that you can see nice sunsets from planes, the aurora borealis, UFOs, whatever. Nothing you see from a plane MATTERS. I once saw the entire ARCTIC CIRCLE from a plane, for HOURS, hundreds and hundreds of miles of cracked ice gradually turning blue as the sun went down. I searched it for Inuit. But none of this COUNTS. To really feel you've been to the North Pole you've got to TRUDGE, with sleighs and huskies, troublesome companions and weird food-stuffs. You've got to get frostbite. In fact you've got to be an IDIOT. There's a REASON why such places are uninhabited."
Dot Butser is a bored housewife who collects tea cozies and enjoys sex with her husband John, who she believes is a swordfisherman (he is not, and the one time he tries it he is overcome with despair and begins sobbing, which causes the other swordfishermen to embrace him; apparently they see this all the time). After her fortieth birthday and the discover that John is cheating on her, Dot becomes a serial killer, murdering old women out of pity in their posh seaside resort of Jaywick, attempts suicide once, and gets it right the second time. There's more after that, notably a long section in the underworld, but I don't want to give everything away just yet! Go read a book, ya dummy!
It feels like it might be overly-clever and twee when I type it all out like that, but the thing I liked most about this book was how much it didn't feel like that. The plot to Dot In The Universe is more or less inconsequential in comparison to its dominating theme of being small and insignificant in an uncaring universe. Words on each page are punched up with CAPITAL LETTERS with little sense of underlying LOGIC, giving the sense that the book was written by a narrator frustrated by the lack of inherent IMPORTANCE in the words they were writing DOWN. The narrator comes off like an intruder into Dot's life, a voice in the back of her head that leads her to ruin. This process of capitalization puts the reader on edge and makes them more aware of the smallness of the book's events. The outlandish parts of Dot's life, like the serial killings and her brief life as a possum, are given equal weight to the dull moments, like feeling uncomfortable at the gynecologist and trying a fancy new restaurant in a different town.
Until Dot's suicide, the reader is reminded over and over again that Dot's life is small, and she knows just as much about the lives of other people as they do about hers. The universe does not revolve around her. When she does die, she is transported via airplane to the afterlife, and on the way she sees all the waste of her life stacked up in piles. All the food she ever shit, all the paper she ever wasted, all the trash she ever threw away (or recycled, it all goes to the same place), all the rage she ever felt in the form of a mountain, Dot looks at all of it without judgment. On the one hand, it reduces Dot to a filter, oxygen to carbon dioxide, food to shit, et cetera et cetera, just one of a billion trillion lifeforms with holes for "in" and holes for "out." On the other hand, these piles are overwhelming and Dot's the only one who ever sees them. She even gets her own plane to look at them from, a plane that someone else is flying! A private jet's got to be an ego boost. Once she reaches the underworld it's business as usual, she's lost in the crowd, but for a brief moment it's all about her and her mountains and mountains of shit.
The second half of the novel is lighter than the first, but it never makes an attempt to trivialize the existential crisis that came before. There's an eleventh hour plot twist that in any other story might seem obvious and cheap, but Dot In The Universe embraces the cheapness, putting a fresh spin on existentialism (existentialism having been in desperate need of a fresh spin for years now) that jives with its own weirdo philosophy.
Dot Butser is a bored housewife who collects tea cozies and enjoys sex with her husband John, who she believes is a swordfisherman (he is not, and the one time he tries it he is overcome with despair and begins sobbing, which causes the other swordfishermen to embrace him; apparently they see this all the time). After her fortieth birthday and the discover that John is cheating on her, Dot becomes a serial killer, murdering old women out of pity in their posh seaside resort of Jaywick, attempts suicide once, and gets it right the second time. There's more after that, notably a long section in the underworld, but I don't want to give everything away just yet! Go read a book, ya dummy!
It feels like it might be overly-clever and twee when I type it all out like that, but the thing I liked most about this book was how much it didn't feel like that. The plot to Dot In The Universe is more or less inconsequential in comparison to its dominating theme of being small and insignificant in an uncaring universe. Words on each page are punched up with CAPITAL LETTERS with little sense of underlying LOGIC, giving the sense that the book was written by a narrator frustrated by the lack of inherent IMPORTANCE in the words they were writing DOWN. The narrator comes off like an intruder into Dot's life, a voice in the back of her head that leads her to ruin. This process of capitalization puts the reader on edge and makes them more aware of the smallness of the book's events. The outlandish parts of Dot's life, like the serial killings and her brief life as a possum, are given equal weight to the dull moments, like feeling uncomfortable at the gynecologist and trying a fancy new restaurant in a different town.
Until Dot's suicide, the reader is reminded over and over again that Dot's life is small, and she knows just as much about the lives of other people as they do about hers. The universe does not revolve around her. When she does die, she is transported via airplane to the afterlife, and on the way she sees all the waste of her life stacked up in piles. All the food she ever shit, all the paper she ever wasted, all the trash she ever threw away (or recycled, it all goes to the same place), all the rage she ever felt in the form of a mountain, Dot looks at all of it without judgment. On the one hand, it reduces Dot to a filter, oxygen to carbon dioxide, food to shit, et cetera et cetera, just one of a billion trillion lifeforms with holes for "in" and holes for "out." On the other hand, these piles are overwhelming and Dot's the only one who ever sees them. She even gets her own plane to look at them from, a plane that someone else is flying! A private jet's got to be an ego boost. Once she reaches the underworld it's business as usual, she's lost in the crowd, but for a brief moment it's all about her and her mountains and mountains of shit.
The second half of the novel is lighter than the first, but it never makes an attempt to trivialize the existential crisis that came before. There's an eleventh hour plot twist that in any other story might seem obvious and cheap, but Dot In The Universe embraces the cheapness, putting a fresh spin on existentialism (existentialism having been in desperate need of a fresh spin for years now) that jives with its own weirdo philosophy.
October 1, 2019
Idk if this is actually good or it just affected me because I'm v sleepy.
--
Look this book is probably not very great but what it is, is this run on along with randomly CAPITALISED words in a cynical put off tone that's such an easy ride and a nice nook to settle yourself in and be pulled along. Should we ponder on this more? I would if I wasn't TYPING this with half SHUT eyes, Ducks, Newberryport better be better than this, if only because it's 5 times this size.
Also this has ILLUSTRATIONS.
--
When you're reading a book, sometimes you wonder about why the author took such and such authorial desicions- why did Dot start killing old ladies? This book feels more like a tumble along; like Ellmann let her imagination run and kept going, the desicion made for her, nothing out of realms. So Dot goes into the afterlife and its a ride, and why not? let's have reincarnation too! The ending then, feels so coincidental, not pre planned at all. But what are we, from that to garner? Are we bound to keep repeating? What does that say of human nature? Of laws of chance? Why do we stick to our tea cosies?
--
Look this book is probably not very great but what it is, is this run on along with randomly CAPITALISED words in a cynical put off tone that's such an easy ride and a nice nook to settle yourself in and be pulled along. Should we ponder on this more? I would if I wasn't TYPING this with half SHUT eyes, Ducks, Newberryport better be better than this, if only because it's 5 times this size.
Also this has ILLUSTRATIONS.
--
When you're reading a book, sometimes you wonder about why the author took such and such authorial desicions- why did Dot start killing old ladies? This book feels more like a tumble along; like Ellmann let her imagination run and kept going, the desicion made for her, nothing out of realms. So Dot goes into the afterlife and its a ride, and why not? let's have reincarnation too! The ending then, feels so coincidental, not pre planned at all. But what are we, from that to garner? Are we bound to keep repeating? What does that say of human nature? Of laws of chance? Why do we stick to our tea cosies?
October 8, 2013
This is a FILTHY, DIRTY tale of a woman who lived, DIED, and lived some more, and was an OPOSSUM in between. Don't read this if you're a PRUDE, if you have very strong RELIGIOUS beliefs, or if you work in the ANIMAL VIVISECTION field.
There was no POINT to Dot, and that's the point. Sort of. The universe can't be BOTHERED to care.
I for one didn't much care for Ellman's ANTI-SCIENCE rantings, because science alleviates SUFFERING, if imperfectly. I get that science plays a role in the PLOT, and that a little anti-science vitriol might be permitted on the part of the NARRATOR, but I suspect that's Ellman's own view.
The use of CAPITALS wasn't at all distracting. I rather ENJOYED the device. I found, say, Mantel's overuse of PRONOUNS rather more off-putting (though I enjoy Mantel, too -- just as a comparison).
There was no POINT to Dot, and that's the point. Sort of. The universe can't be BOTHERED to care.
I for one didn't much care for Ellman's ANTI-SCIENCE rantings, because science alleviates SUFFERING, if imperfectly. I get that science plays a role in the PLOT, and that a little anti-science vitriol might be permitted on the part of the NARRATOR, but I suspect that's Ellman's own view.
The use of CAPITALS wasn't at all distracting. I rather ENJOYED the device. I found, say, Mantel's overuse of PRONOUNS rather more off-putting (though I enjoy Mantel, too -- just as a comparison).
July 2, 2010
I first learned about Lucy Ellmann and this book by reading a wonderful review* she wrote about one of Elfriede Jelinek's books (an author whose searing exploration of the grotesque and abject and everything terrifying about life makes Joyce Carol Oates look like the author of the Hallmark card your Aunt sent you for Easter).
I highly recommend "Dot in the Universe." I warn you, though: don't be fooled by the saucy cover, brisk narrative, the perky grammar (ALL CAPS are used to emphasis IMPORTANT POINTS), and the author's name being "Lucy." Ellmann does not spare her readers from reality anymore than Jelinek does...you just don't realize it until it's too late.
* review here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/...
I highly recommend "Dot in the Universe." I warn you, though: don't be fooled by the saucy cover, brisk narrative, the perky grammar (ALL CAPS are used to emphasis IMPORTANT POINTS), and the author's name being "Lucy." Ellmann does not spare her readers from reality anymore than Jelinek does...you just don't realize it until it's too late.
* review here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2006/...
Read
November 30, 2018hnnnng i wanted badly to love this after falling head over heels for her husband todd mcewen's novels this year but it just didn't 100% resonate. idk i think the middle section about the underworld was just so fully realized & zany that dot's lives flanking it kinda faded into the wallpaper. (some of the observations about america were trite af too, in contrast to the acute eye she trains on british seaside resorts... "americans are fat!" "they drive trucks!" "consumerism is rampant in the suburbs!") the plot folded itself into a v interesting pretzel at the tail end but all in all there were more parts i felt i had to get through than parts i didn't want to end. at least there were some of both. that's life for ya i guess
January 30, 2019
This book is an infuriating read. I enjoyed the weird and wonderful approach to existentialism. However, I found the authors writing style (unpredictable capitalization of words) frustrating to read. The prose is lengthy and, at times, beautifully written but the sometimes pages of tangential description made it a chore to read. A spent the whole time bouncing between hating it and loving it.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
November 10, 2014
Curse you, Michiko Kakutani, for luring me into one of the most distasteful reading experiences of my life.
NOTE: It's been a decade since I read this and I'm STILL mad.
NOTE: It's been a decade since I read this and I'm STILL mad.
April 16, 2012
The best book I've read in years - I read it in an afternoon. So funny and truthful, it hurt at times.
October 28, 2020
crazy and disturbing but worth it.
December 31, 2020
really CONFUSED as to WHAT I just READ, but I still enjoyed it
August 2, 2021
This was a weird experience but interesting. Before reading I was going to do my school book report on this, but quickly after I read this I picked up another book.
June 16, 2022
the capitalization thing kind of bothered me but wow just charming from start to finish this book cured my covid
November 22, 2018
If you are reading this review, you probably know a bit about this book: it's little McChapters, Ellmann's use of oddly capitalizing various words, not at random, but not according to rules, either. I kept thinking of Kurt Vonnegut in terms of the surreal locations and occurrences that are accepted as normal. With that said, I got bored quickly but skipped my new resolution to give up on any books that don't grab me. It was short enough to power through, and perhaps once every 3 or 4 pages, I found a line that had me laughing out loud. Still, I was going to give it 3 stars, but a later chapter called "Dot's Infancy" added an entire star to my rating, a 33-percent increase over what it was going to get. A really beautiful chapter.
If you think you might like the book, give it a shot. It is short and you don't have to invest much. But I'd have been OK without it.
If you think you might like the book, give it a shot. It is short and you don't have to invest much. But I'd have been OK without it.
December 2, 2021
:) like a concerto for solo and orchestra where each side is of equal importance (dot is the soloist, and the universe the orchestra) ... vonnegut would have needed to use radians to describe this story as a graph over time, because it is circular. it's interesting, well written and compelling. i didn't really *like* it that much, but i did keep feeling the need to read parts of the book out loud
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