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The Book of Frank
Frank, a Manhattan civil servant turned homeless indigent, falls deeply in lust with Henrietta, violently protests the boring stagnation taking place in the arts, and finds himself anointed art's new savior by the very frauds he meant to expose
- GenresFiction
228 pages, Hardcover
Published October 1, 1994
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Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews
August 16, 2009
Simon Black is unnervingly talented at managing to convey reality and an insane character's inner world at the same time. This book does have some "dirty" parts, so be prepared for some graphic scenes and sexuality. You will wind up, at times, detesting Frank--as he intends you to. Overall the book is about madness, a performance artist's attempt at literal self-sacrifice, and homelessness. A weird but worthwhile trek through a dark world the likes of which Nietzsche and Kafka would understand.
The frontpiece, in fact, quotes Nietzsche's Human, All Too Human:
"The thinker or artist whose better self has fled into his works feels an almost malicious joy when he sees his body and spirit slowly broken into and destroyed by time; it is as if he were in a corner, watching a thief at work on his safe, all the while knowing that it is empty and that all his treasures have been rescued."
Similarly, Frank expounds: "As I watched myself decline, I began to think of it as a grand performance--something entirely original and modern. Each humiliation I suffered added another brush stroke to the canvas of my decline. It was all done for an audience of one--myself."
Frank is, in some ways, the "everyman" of a declining culture that no longer knows what to make of itself or how to be truthfully creative. Frank destroys himself, and indeed the safe is empty, but there never were any treasures inside. It is Frank's desire to hold up a mirror to the idiot cosmos. Or is it? For he is shallow inside, obsessed with a woman he barely knows, for no discernible reason but random chance. He is, in his own words, a "fraud."
Frank describes this descent: "During this dark night of the artist's soul, he tries to understand the point of all his struggling and striving...The artist's canvas, if he is a painter, which just yesterday seemedto be a window into heaven, suddenly becomes just a bit of cloth stretched on a frame with some idiotic colors scrawled over it, about as significant to the cosmos as a public toilet or a wheelbarrow."
But as he struggles with a robotic and self-obsessed society that glamorizes emptiness, the reader begins to wonder who is right and who is insane. Frank believes, in some way, that God and the Devil are "both peering at me from opposite sides of a celestial porno booth...finding the little peep show of another exposed human life quite amusing."
In the end, his descent into literal and figurative death and rebirth transform him, leaving the reader with the dark film of his life sliming their brain, disturbed and unable to forget the strange trek through one man's apparently helpless, yet powerful, life.
The frontpiece, in fact, quotes Nietzsche's Human, All Too Human:
"The thinker or artist whose better self has fled into his works feels an almost malicious joy when he sees his body and spirit slowly broken into and destroyed by time; it is as if he were in a corner, watching a thief at work on his safe, all the while knowing that it is empty and that all his treasures have been rescued."
Similarly, Frank expounds: "As I watched myself decline, I began to think of it as a grand performance--something entirely original and modern. Each humiliation I suffered added another brush stroke to the canvas of my decline. It was all done for an audience of one--myself."
Frank is, in some ways, the "everyman" of a declining culture that no longer knows what to make of itself or how to be truthfully creative. Frank destroys himself, and indeed the safe is empty, but there never were any treasures inside. It is Frank's desire to hold up a mirror to the idiot cosmos. Or is it? For he is shallow inside, obsessed with a woman he barely knows, for no discernible reason but random chance. He is, in his own words, a "fraud."
Frank describes this descent: "During this dark night of the artist's soul, he tries to understand the point of all his struggling and striving...The artist's canvas, if he is a painter, which just yesterday seemedto be a window into heaven, suddenly becomes just a bit of cloth stretched on a frame with some idiotic colors scrawled over it, about as significant to the cosmos as a public toilet or a wheelbarrow."
But as he struggles with a robotic and self-obsessed society that glamorizes emptiness, the reader begins to wonder who is right and who is insane. Frank believes, in some way, that God and the Devil are "both peering at me from opposite sides of a celestial porno booth...finding the little peep show of another exposed human life quite amusing."
In the end, his descent into literal and figurative death and rebirth transform him, leaving the reader with the dark film of his life sliming their brain, disturbed and unable to forget the strange trek through one man's apparently helpless, yet powerful, life.
August 1, 2018
grotesque and weird and funny, a good catharsis for your bitter failed dreams of being one of the "cool" kids (if you ever had any of those), as well as a sardonic character study of Frank, the embodiment of nihilistic anti-art, who, after (apparently) surpassing the mundane ego-needs which hold most of us mere mortals back, embarks on a satirical take down of elitism, greed, and conformity. the main character is pretty much every creepy guy at a bar that you wish would just leave you alone, and he is somewhat ridiculous. but give him a chance, as he wanders, a literal vagrant, through this hallucinatory shadow world of his own making, because he makes some good points-not about relationships and desire and status so much as about their lack, about the projections and mirages we cast on each other in an effort to find meaning in ourselves and in existence. with his death-drive at the wheel, frank uses the medium of performance art to impress a girl and transcend himself, with strange and muddied results.
August 2, 2019
This book was not for me. It's a strange one, a little too out there for my taste. I get what the author was going for but I was mostly in a state of WTF.
December 19, 2007
I rescued this book from a bargain bin at the first bookstore I ever worked at. I began reading it one day after school, in detention--and I'm came damn close to finishing it there. It's difficult to sum up my reaction to this book...it was maybe the first book I loved and discovered on my own. To this day, I have never met another person who has read The Book of Frank and I have met a great many people who have read a great many things. The deeper metaphors were probably lost on me at the time--for instant, there was plenty of evidence that Frank's story was supposed to parallel the Christ narrative (i.e. the title, the sacrifice and crucifixion, right down to the Bible-like binding of the hardcover edition), but I knew it was funny and strange and dark and obscure AND I knew it was mercilessly attacking modern performance art, which I was totally behind 100%. All these things worked in its favor. Coming along, as it did, at a crucial time in my development as a reader, this book was an invigorating and influential challenge for me. It left quite an impression.
April 16, 2012
Incredibly easy to read, yet the reader is in a constant state of confusion - asking herself what is real and what isn't in the world of Frank. The story unfolds from a first person point of view of a man that often views his life through the eyes of the third person. With Death as his cameraman and Happiness as his butler, The Book of Frank poses many poignant existential questions. Much like Hesse's Siddhartha yet involving situations the modern urbanite could relate to, the reader is taken along on the wildly varied experiences of one man and his search for meaning as life - and death - go on.
September 23, 2008
I picked up this book in at a bargin sale in a book store. I had no idea what it was about, who the writter was, and I don't even think that there was a discription on the back. To this day, I still do not know what possessed me to buy this book, but I am so glad that I did! I loved it and could not put it down. This book really made me think and I ended up underlining so much in this book, because it spoke to me. Basically it was about a performance artist, but it really spoke about humanity, etc.
March 21, 2011
Besides the glaring typos that were my initial red flags, this book is bizarre and pretentiously twisted. I feel like it's trying too hard and is trying to be a cult classic as to the likes of Palahniuk's works. The ending is unbelievable (SPOILER ALERT) and I feel like this story may have redeemed itself a little if the main character had indeed died. It makes no sense for him to all of a sudden want to rejoin the "9-5" lifestyle. Thankfully this was a very quick read, so I don't feel too badly about wasting my time.
February 16, 2011
I found this book on the side of the road in 1996 while walking home from school... I thought it looked interesting and at that point I was reading anything I could get my hands on. I seriously think this is one of the first books I ever laughed out loud too... and needless tosay it was a major influence in me going to art school. I think that this should be a must read for ANYONE who claims to be an artist.
June 16, 2007
Omg, dirtyfuck alert *sirens*. I love this book. It's crazy but not in a trying too hard way. It's just odd and engaging and kind of sad. Touching on issues of homelessness, art snobbery and anal sex.
February 27, 2008
Funny Ha Ha, the way "The Wasp Factory" was hilarious.
March 3, 2008
This book sums up my exact sentiments about 99% of the people that I met when I lived in New York. Fuck 'em!
October 22, 2012
Weird book
Displaying 1 - 12 of 12 reviews