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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
“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.
I read this in a single sitting and felt a rollercoaster of emotions. Some vignettes made me both laugh out loud and feel like I'd been punched in the gut. Weaver's a great writer, and Marigold's a bittersweet way to spend an hour.
*Update* I re-read this and maybe it's just because my head's felt all fucked up, but it was even better than the first go.
Generally enjoyed Wichita Stories more, but this is a totally different animal. More intense, more compact, more vivid. Takes some savoring. Not to be rushed through, but to be dwelled in.
This book was a wondrous opportunity to peer into the often terrifying and lonely world of an adult finding and revealing the good and bad of not only themselves but the image of others and the world around us. As death looms over our observing narrator, we see the raw, even suffocating reality of capitalism. Each emotion presented in this short read is as heavy and hard-hitting as a rollercoaster, keeping us at the edge of our seats on each page. From the short stories to the one-liners, this book is a master of showing that even in unhappiness there are glimmers of humanity, overwhelming in its hard honesty, it shows we are not as alone in this world as we think.
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.
"I think about the wars being waged in this world. I want to know what it feels like to have a bullet through the heart. A bullet filled with hate. I want to know death, the kind of feeling that forgives the murderer before the trigger's even pulled."
In short, the writing can be a bit too heavy-handed or try-hard at times, amateurish. Still, it's worth a read considering its brevity and that it piqued my interest in Weaver's other work.
The story itself was good, though more than a few of the vignettes fell flat. I'm a big fan of the format though.
This is now one of my favorite books. I read this book and I texted my friend: "I want to read you this book." It is short, creative, and honest. This book is like going through the texts of a dead friend and finding all of the little things you never knew suddenly brought to light. These poems, stories, are incredibly intimate in their confessional nature.
It also boasts one of the strongest endings I have come to know in modern literature. The last page stayed on my mind for days, will likely remain there for a long time to come.
Troy James Weaver is a very sad man who writes very pretty words. Is this considered poetry? I’m not sure. The book is divided up into very short sections, very rarely more than a single page. Usually there’s only a paragraph, sometimes just a sentence. Marigold is about a really depressed dude who works with flowers. Everything sucks. It’s a good book.
I think of this book often. I picked it up at Powell's in Portland when I was thoroughly depressed and felt the balm of both the genuine mirror of listless, boring suffering, and the beauty and tenderness of the continued humanity and care the narrator manages to experience. I talk to a lot of men, especially, who I think would sit more comfortably with themselves if they had Marigold on their bookshelf.