This book is for anyone who has opened their eyes from sleep and felt the oncoming dread of routine. It is not a happy book, and it will not make you feel better. Human frailties, the inability to connect and the pointlessness of the everyday prevail. However, there are rare instances of connection, and though the themes here are overwhelming, you will close this book knowing that you are not alone.
MARIGOLD is a series of sad, heart-clutching, suicidal vignettes. I wanted so badly to reach inside the pages and give the narrator a hug. Or maybe a smack across the face. And then a hug.
"Morții și viii nu se deosebesc - au aceleași pretenții, sunt la fel de triști..."
Am păreri împărțite legate de cartea asta. Jumătate din timp am fost "oh, da, da, simt la fel, stai să marchez acest citat". Jumătate din timp am fost "ce naiba citesc?".
Gândurile autorului se învârt în jurul suicidului, vieții mizere, monotoniei.
"Câteodată suntem propriul nostru cancer..."
Te poți regăsi, te poți simți dezgustată, îți poți da ochii peste cap. Toate astea pe aceeași carte.
La final de zi, la final de gând, concluzia e aceeași: viața poate fi mizerabilă. Oamenii o fac mizerabilă. Societatea o face mizerabilă. Propria îngrădire o face mizerabilă.
This book was beautiful and terrifying. It was not what I expected either. If I can borrow a military metaphor, it was more about occupation than invasion, which caught me off guard. The narrator states his desire to die on the first page, which is both intriguing and unnerving for a reader. It brought back terrible memories, but I'm very happy this book exists because it will connect people together and make them feel less alone. That's it. I don't know what else to tell you. Troy James Weaver has knocked the eloquence out of me. Again.
Am terminat cartea în mai puțin de o oră. Se citește foarte repede, dar, din păcate, m-a dezamăgit.
Încă de la primele pagini m-am gândit: cartea asta aduce mult cu modul de scriere al lui Bukowski. Și m-am bucurat, pentru că îl ador. La două-trei pagini distanță văd că autorul chiar îl citează pe Bukowski și atunci am simțit că sunt pe calea cea bună. Doar că dezamăgirea a venit foarte repede, când mi-am dat seama că această carte nu are esența.
Se pretinde a fi o carte despre depresie, singurătate și monotonia vieții moderne, dar tot ce am putut eu să văd a fost misoginismul și vocabularul urât al florarului nostru care se luptă cu gânduri suicidare. Personal, m-am săturat să tot citesc cărți ale căror subiecte se vor a fi profunde, dar unde nu găsești decât înjurături aruncate pe hârtie.
Înțeleg problema mai mult decât mi-aș dori, pentru că și eu mă lupt cu depresia de la 16 ani, poate chiar mai devreme, dar atunci am realizat că ceva nu e în regulă. Am avut ani la rând gânduri suicidare și sunt recunoscătoare că astăzi am un motiv care mă face să vreau exact opusul: fiica mea. Spun asta pentru că da, când citesc astfel de cărți, le raportez inevitabil la mine, la trăirile mele, la gândurile mele. Și cred că mulți dintre noi facem la fel când citim despre lucruri pe care le-am simțit, mai devreme sau mai târziu, în viață. Deși mi-a luat ani, într-un final am reușit să merg să cer ajutor și mi-am dat seama că nu este nici atât de greu, nici rușinos. Am înțeles că, până la urmă, cel mai important lucru este starea mea de bine și sănătatea mea psihică și nu ce cred ceilalți despre mine. De aceea, încurajez pe oricine trece prin momente dificile sau depresive să caute sprijin. Tratamentul poate că nu vindecă boala, dar ne ajută să o traversăm mai ușor și, uneori, poate face diferența dintre azi și mâine. Eu am simțit asta pe pielea mea.
Revenind la carte, mi-ar fi plăcut să știu mai multe despre de ce acest personaj este în depresie. Nu doar că este. Mi-ar fi plăcut să înțeleg cauzele, trecutul, parcursul lui interior. În schimb, primim doar gânduri fragmentate, limbaj dur și observații amare.
M-a deranjat și modul în care sunt prezentate femeile. Există un moment în care soția este prezentată ca locul lui de bine, unde se simte în siguranță. Dar când apare un conflict real între ei, el nu comunică, nu explică, nu încearcă să repare nimic. În rest, femeile sunt privite printr-un filtru dur, generalizant și adesea denigrator. Și, pentru că nu există suficient context psihologic, aceste remarci nu par parte din portretul unui om rănit, ci par pur și simplu gratuite.
Aici e, pentru mine, diferența majoră față de Bukowski. La el, limbajul vulgar, cinismul și chiar misoginia au mereu un context. Îi vezi trecutul, traumele, rușinea, eșecurile. Înțelegi de ce omul ăla este așa, chiar dacă nu îl scuzi. În „Gălbenele”, toate aceste lucruri rămân la suprafață, fără explicație emoțională.
În afară de faptul că încearcă, la un moment dat, să vorbească cu cineva de la prevenție despre problemele lui, nu știm mare lucru despre ce face concret cu starea lui. Poate că, subtil, se încearcă ideea că noi, oamenii, nu știm să comunicăm, ne e frică să fim înțeleși greșit sau etichetați, dar mesajul rămâne prea vag ca să aibă forță.
Pentru mine, „Gălbenele” a părut mai degrabă o colecție de gânduri aruncate pe hârtie, cu o estetică inspirată de Bukowski, limbajul, tonul, fragmentarea, dar fără substanța care face scrisul lui Bukowski atât de uman, coerent și dureros de sincer.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
I could fix him. Just kidding I can’t even fix myself.
Just an ordinary life, a wife, a customer service job, calling the suicide hotline on the daily. There’s something so intimate about reading something that feels like you’re sneaking a peek into someone’s journal. That phrase—“They seemed fine. We didn’t see any signs they’d do something like this” Runs through my head while listening, for this is the reality of struggling with mental health It’s such a personal, private thing, the slow, quiet build of a plan.
there are interesting ideas here, especially around grief, queerness, and self-discovery. and to be fair, some moments feel real and honest. but the narrative itself feels loose, almost directionless. things happen, feelings are explored, but there’s no strong sense of buildup or payoff.
There’s a crassness and an honesty here that I hardly get out of most writing. There’s flaws, pompousness, and even meaningless drivel, but all of it is controlled by an intent—it reads like an intent to scream and lament, and that raw sincerity definitely has a place in my heart. I praise this little book for holding onto an ugly energy that most authors endeavor to assuage.
I have mixed feelings here. I sincerely appreciate the raw emotion and baring-of-the-soul in this author's writing. I find that greatly appealing, and I understand and relate to most of his meaning and circumstance. Unfortunately his way of wording things is not to my taste. I was turned off by the frequent use of swear words and the crude passages involving bathroom use. There is a lot to appreciate here, regardless, and the last passage was stellar! If you are a fan of Bukowski, this will most likely appeal to you!
Hey, you’re a fairly decent person stuck working a shit job but doing your goddamndest to eke out a life worth living. However, you find, more often than not, that existence under modern capitalism feels suffocating, crushing. Other people are difficult to relate to and largely incomprehensible. Your worklife ranges from denigrating to soul-rending. Bills pile up in spite of your spartan lifestyle. You take on a second job, maybe a third. You watch Seinfeld reruns with a homeless person. You routinely contemplate suicide. Well, Marigold by Troy James Weaver is the novella for you.
It’s maybe more a mirror than a book, so brace yourself.
Marigold is the story of a “thirty-something floral salesman” struggling to cope with the sheer horror of everyday life. For many, I’m sure, the story will be as relatable as it is bleak. It is intensely uncomfortable, absurd, and beautiful. It is emotionally devastating and full of existential dread. It is the absolute best of contemporary literary fiction.
Marigold is written as a series of short vignettes that range from a few lines to a few pages. This makes the novella an extremely easy read, despite the fragmentary nature of the narrative. Troy James Weaver, more than any author I can think of, captures the rhythm of modern existence through his writing. Yet, at the same time, his prose tends to communicate a dreary, dreamlike quality, which in the past has led reviewers to compare his work (particularly, his novel Visions) to Harmony Korine’s films. I think the reference is warranted in regard to both Visions and Marigold. That said, for me, Marigold called more to mind the writings of Charles Bukowski and Sam Pink (there’s even a passing Bukowski reference early in the novella). But in my honest opinion, Troy James Weaver brings a level of seriousness and artistry to the table that neither Bukowski or Pink ever achieved. Don’t get me wrong, I love Bukowski and Pink. Troy James Weaver, though, just seems to be doing something a little more authentic, a little more visceral.
If you’re a real person, you most certainly understand a few things. Our society is shit. Our economy is a massive human meat grinder. Most contemporary literary fiction is utterly insufferable.
Troy James Weaver’s Marigold, however, is exactly what the world needs right now. It is a bittersweet antidote to all that ails us in this miserable human moment.
Life is strange and dark and unexpected and so is this book. Life is glimmering and odd and made of precious metal that doesn't know it's precious, and so is this book. Troy James Weaver is a marvel of a writer. He's got a beautiful slippery stye that catches you off guard, what he does flows out so organic, and reads so simple but is in truth built up out of the shimmering piles of gem, sun faded polaroid photographs of first loves, obituaries for people you never knew but know now, treasure maps through the junkyard, aerial shots hovering over a smoking hole in the ground where a museum was before it exploded from a gas leak. I just think this guy is one of the best writers we've got going these days. The whole world is packed into this book, picture a snowball packed tight, packed tight, packed tight. Rocks inside.
Weaver's newest book reads like the journal of a suicidal floral worker observing the world and people around him while keeping death just off his own doorstep. It's troubling, beautiful, funny, and stylistically daring. Marigold (the book) is one unique flower that blooms and dies and then grows again. Make sure to read it with the sun coming through your window.
This book is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. Its so relatable, each vignette will tear open old wounds that have yet to fully heal. In other words: Troy James Weaver is a fantastic author, and I think I just trauma bonded with this novel. If you ever struggle to get out of bed in the morning and start another day... this book is for you.
If Weaver books were longer, would they be as good?
Round down 4
This book has me thinking about it weeks later, even after reading other good books between then and now. Feelings more than thoughts, really. I've read a couple of his other books but it seems this one is what did it to me. Weaver might have just entered into my very small list of personal legends.
Short sharp written with an authentic voice. Given it’s length it’s one to absorb slowly rather than read at full pace. It’s effectively like a fever dream of one man’s battles to not commit suicide, so be prepared. It will seem indulgent and I have seen comments saying the writing is too on the nose and amateurish but those comments are flipped the wrong way around as far as I am concerned, as that is what makes it real as it hasn’t been polished to within an inch of its life. Real people talk like real people not authors.
I believe how much you get out of this will depend on a number of things (as always) but for anyone ever finding themselves unappreciated or seemingly forgotten as life seems to overtake them will take something away from this.
Reticence is a word I think of often, I’m just not sure how to use it. It’s constantly at the tip of my tongue, teetering back and forth, folding in on the sound of itself.
… if I had a gun rack, right above my bed, I’d have to someday get a gun to fit it—might wake up one day and not be so afraid to use it, if I had one. And say, if I had a blender, I’d make a margarita. Because, what the fuck else do you do with a blender? Can’t shoot yourself through the face with that.
✨ Gen: Literary fiction, short stories, contemporary;
✨ “Galbenele” e genul de carte care te atrage vizual (ador coperta), însă conținutul te face să te simți… ciudat. 🧐
✨ Am început cartea fără să știu exact la ce să mă aștept (deşi ştiam tema principală - suicidul, şi am riscat) și am rămas cu o stare apăsătoare şi cu un gust amar (nu neapărat în sensul rău).
✨ Cartea explorează teme precum identitatea, singurătatea, relațiile complicate și ideea de suicid.
✨ Stilul e simplu, cartea se citește rapid, dar încărcătura emoțională e foarte mare. Pe parcursul lecturii simțeam că am un ghem în stomac şi înghițeam în gol constant.
✨ Nu pot spune că mi-a plăcut, dar nici că e o carte slabă. Contează mult şi starea pe care o ai atunci când o începi, iar fiecare vede diferit anumite capitole sau scene. Cartea are o intensitate care rămâne constant cu tine şi te face să îți pui sute de întrebări.
✨ E o lectură care te scoate din zona de confort, fiind o carte nu tocmai usor de digerat. O recomand oricui e curios de această carte şi ştie că poate să “ducă” această lectură.
✨ 3/5 ⭐️
✨ Mulțumesc @alice.books pentru exemplarul oferit. 🩷
✨ Care e cea mai sensibilă carte pe care ai citit-o în ultimul timp? Cât de tare te-a afectat?
Fight club for grown ups. One of the best shorter stories I've read. Wholly believable, it's reflective without indulgence. It doesn't want or ask for sympathy. Doesn't even make a grand statement. It just flows and makes you think. I loved it.
Another masterpiece from Troy James Weaver. After reading Witchitia Stories I'm hooked on his stories. This novella is for anyone that has struggled with loneliness. I felt so much empathy for the main character. The plot is about a Florist trying to find reasons to keep existing.
Having lived with a relative who went through their own struggles, this peek into the looming cloud of suicidality/isolation and the tiny slivers of connection that peek through definitely makes this a raw, relatable read.
"[...] așteptând să sune telefonul. Nu sună. Am nevoie de cineva care să mă vrea nu doar pentru ceea ce pun pe tarabă. Mai mult decât orice, vreau să-mi vărs sufletul în fața unui străin care chiar dă doi bani pe asta, doar ca să văd cum e să simți așa ceva."
“On the drive to work, they’re talking to Norman Mailer on NPR. He answers every question with a smugness that could make a person puke. Just masturbation, the words coming out of that man, the world we live in-a place which deliberately celebrates this particular brand of evil.”
feel like this little book could very easily overstay it’s welcome. it lives inside a thick darkness that makes for really heavy reading at almost all times, and i think without the skill and care of the author this could fall flat; thankfully Weaver has a deftness that allows for quiet conveyance of a disease that’s hard to put to page. loneliness that builds internally, without any real hope of suppressing it, to the point that its tendrils climb and wrap themselves around external aspects of a sufferer’s life. the narrator sees the ugly in everything and everyone. he finds darkness in the minutiae of everyday life. there’s little hope in this brutal bullet book, but it’s a wound that we need to acknowledge. really enjoyed Witchita Stories, but this hits a real tender spot.
Essentially a diary by a sucidial 29 year old having a midlife crisis about life being meaningless spliced with Wikipedia facts about marigolds. Why do I keep getting trick by these vapid and translucent alt lit scam artists? Because I liked Scott McClanahan? Is this my punishment? Am I to be forever flooded with a sea of recommendations filled with dated hipster references and infantile journaling? Writing four lines a week about how you want to kill yourself and calling yourself a writer must be quite the life to lead. Maybe I'm jealous.