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Sick Friends
Hardcover in good condition. Price-clipped jacket in acceptable condition. Jacket is lightly marked. Tears, wear and creases on jacket leading corners, edges and spine ends. Page block and a few page edges are lightly marked. Sticker on front pastedown. Text is clear throughout. HCW
368 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1970
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
February 5, 2021
I remember in my early 20s being knocked over by Ivan Gold’s debut collection of short stories, NICKEL MISERIES, when it appeared in 1963. So were a number of critics, including Lionel Trilling, who gifted Gold with a jacket blurb heralding his great promise.
Somehow I never followed Gold’s subsequent work, but recently that early pleasure came back to me and I took up his 1969 first novel, SICK FRIENDS. The energy in the writing was still there, at least for awhile, but then the hollowness and appallingly narrow self-interest of his narrator became a problem for me. I suppose Gold has to be credited for accurately depicting a certain type, but the clearly autobiographical nature of the book raises concerns.
The narrator likes that there’s something between a woman’s legs with which he can satisfy himself, but that’s about the end of his regard. When one woman he’s been seeing is unavailable, he screws another. When none is available he masturbates. And he drinks. A lot. We get 372 pages of this, with intermittent sardonic observations that suggest a sort of Charles Bukowski with the addition of a degree of intellect.
If I were allowed only one word to describe this book, I’m sorry but I’m afraid my choice would have to be “ugly.” I know I should quote something to support that harsh a judgment, but I just don’t have the heart or stomach to do that.
For the final 100 or so pages, I found myself uncharacteristically skimming. I will not be messing with Gold’s other novel.
Somehow I never followed Gold’s subsequent work, but recently that early pleasure came back to me and I took up his 1969 first novel, SICK FRIENDS. The energy in the writing was still there, at least for awhile, but then the hollowness and appallingly narrow self-interest of his narrator became a problem for me. I suppose Gold has to be credited for accurately depicting a certain type, but the clearly autobiographical nature of the book raises concerns.
The narrator likes that there’s something between a woman’s legs with which he can satisfy himself, but that’s about the end of his regard. When one woman he’s been seeing is unavailable, he screws another. When none is available he masturbates. And he drinks. A lot. We get 372 pages of this, with intermittent sardonic observations that suggest a sort of Charles Bukowski with the addition of a degree of intellect.
If I were allowed only one word to describe this book, I’m sorry but I’m afraid my choice would have to be “ugly.” I know I should quote something to support that harsh a judgment, but I just don’t have the heart or stomach to do that.
For the final 100 or so pages, I found myself uncharacteristically skimming. I will not be messing with Gold’s other novel.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews