What bothers me immensely about this book is that it makes some very good points about life, love and books, but does so in a style that would probably make me feel more content eating the pages raw than reading them. The language Manson uses seems, ironically enough, very want-to-be-funny or even want-to-be-relatable: the book is full of swearing and jokes about sex. I haven’t heard the word “shit” this frequently in procession since I heavily bruised my toe on a couch a year ago.
When I read it, I really enjoyed Manson’s book The Subtle Art of Giving A Fuck. That said, I read it when I was freshly 18 and still thought his ideas were mind-boggling. Now, I find myself - though agreeing with what he puts forward - who he actually is to be telling us these things. Manson has a way of putting universal ideas into simple, but extremely cliche and largely unfunny words. Frankly, the book could use a bit more editing, as well.
A good example of the incongruous nature of the book is the fact that the entire thing is written in a straight-forward tone (if you ignore the attempts at jokes that consist largely of cultural references non-typical westerners would likely not understand), with big but recognizable ideas put into simple words, but then the books recommended at the end are by authors such as Nietzsche or Freud. If there is anything I could not imagine the general intended audience for this 83-page self-help book about life and love being excited to read, it is the dense prose written by Friedrich Nietzsche. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate Manson’s taste and his sharing of it - and I truly hope anyone could enjoy a good Freudian analysis - but to me it just feels as though the man needs to take another look at his target audience, edit a few small things, and drop a few shits.