A Arte de Ser Desagradável

by Jim Knipfel, Marcia Heloisa Amarante Gonçalves (Translator)

Delinquência juvenil, internações psiquiátricas, tentativas de suicídio, anos e anos se dedicando a infernizar a vida alheia. Após muito tempo chafurdando na merda, Jim Knipfel conclui, com doses altas de piadas de mau gosto e teor alcoólico elevado, que não vale a pena passar a vida sendo um babaca. E apesar de todo o vandalismo, dos furtos, da tentativa de incêndio criminoso, das brincadeiras cretinas, não se arrepende de nada do que fez (exceto talvez ter recusado o trabalho de dublagem para um comercial de fraldas geriátricas).

Genres: Memoir, Nonfiction, Biography Memoir, Biography

252 pages, Paperback

First published May 11, 2004

Reviews

[Mark · Rating 3 out of 5]

Years ago a good friend either loaned or gave me this book (which term best applies will probably be determined by whether or not I attempt to return it to her). I had ignored it for long stretches of time, only occasionally picking it up to enjoy its pleasant-to-my-hands heft and size, as well as the high contrast cover art. But I don't think I ever even so much as read the back cover blurb. Then I'd set it back down and it would once again sink, for another year and a half or so, in the constant ebb and flow of books comprising a large enough portion of our domestic environment to rattle my wife's nerves, which are probably already threadbare from my other proclivities. Last weekend we were headed for a week on the Cape and as I loaded up my backpack with more books than was reasonable (something I usually do even for a weekend road trip--a habit symptomatic, I think, of a profound inability to cope with my own mortality ... or perhaps a method of coping with precisely that, I'm not sure), I grabbed this one for some reason. Glad I did. The writing is an intense, but not ornate, first person account of a guy who is just as crazy, if not more so, than any of us (or at least as me). He's not had a great deal of luck in the genetic lottery of life, unless you count the "bad" variety. He was "born with a slow, degenerative eye disease called retinitis pigmentosa" (pg. 3), epileptic seizures and some other afflictions that are more slippery to specifically diagnose (a penchant toward alcoholism, misanthropy, nihilism and self-destruction would probably best sum it up). Despite that, he writes honestly, directly and deftly avoids a syrupy confessional tone. This book is his journey from being an unabashed and deliberate asshole to a realization that, regardless how crappy his life can at times seem and be, being that kind of a person (or even being enraged at less artful assholes after he has cut back on the behavior himself) is more often than not a waste of time. Other readers might find a far cruder cartographer of territory similar to what is mapped by, say, David Sedaris. But I suspect Sedaris fictionalizes, or at least exaggerates, in pursuit of laughs far more than Knipfel does here. His other two books are on my list to acquire and read at some point.

[Lisa · Rating 4 out of 5]

An odd, quirky little memoir that (and this is high praise) doesn't read like the current crop of Memoirs-with-a-capital-M. There's no sexual abuse, no bizarre, hilariously disturbing family background. Just a guy who loses his sight and learns to be a little (but only a little, mind you) less angry and sarcastic. Okay, really, he isn't any less sarcastic. But that's what makes it fun to read.

I'll admit, though it's put out by a large-ish publishing house, the fact that this book looks independently published (and reads that way, too) is what led me to buy it. Square instead of rectangular, with a non-glossy cover and the graphic image. The grouchy matter-of-factness of the author's voice fit totally with the...uh...damn. I'm pretty sure I just judged a book by its cover. I'm not supposed to do that, am I? But it's really pretty good anyway, at least if you can handle the only-sometimes-humorous sullenness of an aging punk.

[Linda]

My late friend El Duce was mentioned in this book(as an asshole) and I was so excited I jumped up and down. I'm a geek!

[John McCarthy · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jim Knipfel is a malcontent writer exacerbated by large volumes of alcohol. I enjoyed his work in Philadelphia and then he left. He suffers from serious physical and mental problems but he never feels sorry for himself. This is one of his best characteristics. In his darkly funny bio he is looking for the meaning of things whether through religion (not likely) or some cosmic dice game (more likely). As the writer ages he begins to mellow.

[Jesse · Rating 4 out of 5]

I cherished this book in college so much that I kept it on my coffee table for years. I love dark humor, and this is like a slice of 'Black Books' if Bernard were a pissy alcoholic NY paper editor, instead of a pissy alcoholic British book seller.

[Red · Rating 3 out of 5]

Was able to collect some pretty amusing quotes. I also appreciate the length. My ADHD wasn't able to give it up.

Overall it's an okay read, wouldn't recommend to the overtly devout.

[John Hood · Rating 5 out of 5]

http://therealjohnhood.com/bookem/com...

Coming To Terms
"You're ugly," she hissed. "And you can tell your momma I says so."

So says the high school girl to the scribbler. The crack comes from nowhere, completely unprovoked and surely unsolicited. And it cracks smack in the middle of Jim Knipfel's Ruining It For Everybody (Tarcher/Penguin $9.95).

Thing is, the bitch was probably right. Then. Knipfel was ugly. As ugly as he wanted to be.

We are what we reap.

Once upon a time New York Pressman Jim Knipfel "wanted" to be "a[n] asshole." A "monster." A "creep." He wanted to be rude; he wanted to be crude; he wanted to be utterly contrary no matter who it might hurt. If Ruining is any indication (and I've no reason to suspect otherwise), he succeeded. With aplomb. For a very bad long time.

Poor and mean and drunk in Madison, Minneapolis, Philadelphia and New York, Knipfel sets fires, slanders underground legends, spree steals, neglects his wife, yada yada yada. The damn schmuck's even unkind to strangers. In other words he's your basic all around general shit. And then some.

After awhile all that ugliness begins to take its toll. Staggering seizures and suspicious stigmata, unkillable cysts and uncountable pustules. A loony bin. Eventually even Knipfel's metaphors draw blood. He begins to lose more and more minutes. And he begins to lose his sight. Of course it is only then that he begins to see.

It's an old story, for an old soul, and Knipfel excels in the telling. Guy goes blind and sees the light. Few though learn to see with such clarity. Even fewer see things his way.

Fewer still can claim their insight came directly from Harry Crews, the wisest of seers.

Still suffering (but alas not yet smarting) from the now age-old thrashing of the good John Doe (was that in Terminal?), Knipfel prepares for his first NYP staff writer assignment as he prepares for everything else: he doesn't. No reading. No rereading. No notes. Nothing. Definitely not the best way to approach a veritable sage.

But sages are known for remarkable patience, and sage Harry is no different. Knipfel prods, plods, even insults the great man, and still Harry stays on the line, feeding huckster Jim enough rope to pull himself out of his own damn hole.

I won't spill the beans (buy the book), but I will say that Crews comes through with a zinger. He also comes through with some very simple truth: Everything's kinda cool. Not earth-shattering perhaps, but affirmation enough to get Knipfel off of his pity pot. Everything is kinda cool, Jim: your job, your place, your station.

Cool above all is Morgan, the great dame in Knipfel's increasingly moral story. She's the rock that keeps him outta the hard place, the chick that keeps him ticking. Knipfel may say that this newfound enlightenment is best-christened "Buddhism for Drunkards;" I say it's nothing more (and nothing less) than coming to terms. Morgan makes the man come to those terms.

Of course no scribbler worth his weight in words gets by simply on wisemen, wine, women, and song, and Knipfel is no exception. For the get-up and go he's got to credit Grandpa Roscoe; for the devil-may-care-but-I-don't he's got to blame a cat named Grinch. For the hat and the inquiring mind, he's got to thank Kolchak, The Night Stalker, who put in young Jim's head the notion of a good guy hack.

Mostly though Jim's got Jim, with whom he'll have to contend until he's outta contention. And to whom he'll ever have to turn. Like the game of spin-the-knife played in Bukowski's "question and answer": the point is saving yourself. Knipfel may have ruined it for everybody else, but he sure as hell saved something for his own damn self: Himself. Hank: Light a cigarette. Pour another drink. Give the knife another spin, Jim.

[Kirsti · Rating 4 out of 5]

Memoir by the awesome Jim Knipfel. There's a Mission of Burma reference in the first sentence, so he had me at hello.

I have never been so hung up on a dedication to a book. As I read, I kept thinking, Oh, thank G-d, he's still with Morgan and still loves her despite all his illnesses and problems and so on.

"When confronted with some serious medical condition--going blind, for instance--there is a dramatic shift in the things foremost in your mind. For some reason, bringing Western Civilization to its knees doesn't seem quite as important as getting to the store and back without injury."

"Sometimes it could seem like all Morgan and I did was sit in bars, talk with each other, and get drunk, but we did more than that. We gambled, too."

". . . it was one of those brief, rare, good moments, like sitting in an old empty bar you'd never heard of or getting your feet wet in the ocean, that'll stick around for awhile."

[Ron Grunberg · Rating 5 out of 5]

This book tells the truth, unfortunately you might say, because it's an awful chronicle of bad-doing, mainly in youth, at college--adventures he and his friend "Grinch" had at the U. of Wisconsin in Madison. Setting fire, or trying to, to a building on campus, jumping out and scaring passers-by, getting in fights, generally "Ruining it for Everybody"--generally, being cruel often.

He grew out of that, and chronicles his writing career, his personal life, his drinking life, his love for the odd and grotesque (Coney Island sideshow characters, etc.) and leads us to understand how one can eventually overcome proclivities towards cruelty, and act decently.

Anyway, these pages contain Jim's traditional mix of excellent story-telling and odd adventures. It's a page turner. And give's a lot of extra insights into his biography, many of the details new to fans of his over the years.

[Daniel Levesque · Rating 4 out of 5]

Jim Knipfel is brilliant. The Introduction divulges something that many readers of Jim's work may have not known: that he was born with some degenerative vision horribleness and is mostly without vision. Perhaps this is why his descriptions are so tight. Or maybe he's just a fucking genius. Either way, read Mr Knipfel's books if you enjoy a good chuckle at everyones- including your own- expense.

[Hilton Neves · Rating 3 out of 5]

It was so-so. The Brazilian title misled a bit. Expected to find something didactic or in a handbook way. Turned out it was more autobiographic, although it did show us how Jim ruined it on his wilder days. Enjoyed the Harry Crews part. There's something Bukowskian on Jim's acting and world view. Learned a tad about seagulls and polystyrene.

[Barbara · Rating 1 out of 5]

He certainly ruined it for me.

[Alisa · Rating 4 out of 5]

I wasn't as shock reading this as I was Slackjaw, but Jim still keeps his acidic sense of humor going with his quite obviously negative and hang-over riddled obversations on life around him.

[Jason Walker · Rating 2 out of 5]

Interesting. His philosohpy is a little weak. Needs to tighten up the conclusions. Otherwise enjoyable