Share via Email Sentiment does not gush into the soul when reading the novels of Chuck Palahniuk. Fight Club, the bruising debut that made his reputation, concerns guys beating seven shades out of each other in the name of personal growth. Survivor, his second book, centres on the only member of a death cult left alive following a mass suicide. His latest, Invisible Monsters, enters the psyches of men, women and others balanced somewhere in between, who run amok in the cultural china shop where catwalk fashion, sexual transgression and the grim realities of "gender reassignment" meet. In these latest thrumming pages we make the acquaintance of citizens with half their faces blown off or leafing eagerly through catalogues of surgically pre-fabricated vaginas.
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You are on page 1of 6 Search inside document by Chuck Palahniuk Inhale. Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer.
So listen as fast as you can. A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline. At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts. She says to come down, right now. He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. That something too awful to name. People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party As you start down the stairway, then-magic.
The perfect crippling put-down. Thats the spirit of the stairway. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do. Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about. Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look Intentional at least.
The regular kind of sad teen suicide. Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner.
They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips. He says how they all have to share the same television. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy. On the phone, the kid says how-the day before-he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off.
That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin. Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.
Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. All the way inside. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life. Now his back hurts. His kidneys. This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people screaming.
Game shows. The X-rays show the truth, something long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood. This kid and his folks, his whole family, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses standing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth.
The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy. On the phone, right now, he starts to cry. They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. Sticking stuff inside yourself. Sticking yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.
What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each handful in a towel. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my mom. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle.
The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sitting on it. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellowstriped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped football practice. My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop.
I swim up to catch another big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom. I do this again and again. This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bottom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.
Palahniuk en la Feria Internacional del Libro de Miami de Mediante estos relatos, intenta comentar los problemas actuales de la sociedad, tales como el materialismo. Aunque diferentes de los anteriores libros en la trama, siguen guardando muchas similitudes con obras anteriores. El estilo de Palahniuk se inspira en buena parte en el de escritores tales como Gordon Lish y Amy Hempel. Trabajando como periodista independiente entre libro y libro, escribe ensayos y reportajes sobre una variedad de temas; a veces participa en los sucesos sobre los que escribe, teniendo estas obras mucho trabajo de campo. Laura Miller, de Salon.
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Biografia e carriera[ modifica modifica wikitesto ] Chuck Palahniuk nasce a Pasco , nello stato di Washington , il 21 febbraio del da padre statunitense , figlio di immigrati ucraini i nonni paterni del futuro scrittore immigrarono inizialmente in Canada , da dove si trasferirono poi negli Stati Uniti nel  , Fred Palahniuk, e da madre statunitense di origini francesi e ucraine , Carol Adele Tallent   . Subito dopo la laurea si sposta a Portland , dove, dopo un breve periodo in un quotidiano locale, cambia totalmente rotta e decide di diventare meccanico di motori diesel , trascorrendo le sue giornate a riparare camion e a scrivere manualetti tecnici. In questo difficile periodo, Palahniuk comincia la stesura del nuovo e controverso Ninna Nanna . Nel , durante il tour promozionale di Diary , Palahniuk lesse ai fan un breve racconto intitolato Budella titolo originale Guts che venne poi pubblicato nel marzo dal periodico Playboy. I suoi lavori escono su diverse riviste e quotidiani, tra cui il Los Angeles Times. Alcuni dei suoi articoli sono stati raccolti nel suo libro La scimmia pensa, la scimmia fa. Nel viene pubblicato il romanzo dal titolo Tell All, in italiano Senza veli.
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