A great novel by one of my favorite authors -- I think the way to understand Tao is he is simply trying to be as 100% purely honest as possible, to really grapple with what it means to be alive, in each and every tedious (or awkward or tender or...) moment. But he's doing that from the perspective of someone who never managed to enter into & find satisfaction in all the various social structures that most people use to find meaning in their lives.
(I think there is increasingly an epidemic of people like this this, and you could speculate as to why, e.g. maybe something about breakdown of social structures, or maybe something about unhealthy environments creating autism/autistic-like traits, or maybe dot dot dot -- lots of a possibilities.)
Anyway, no author I have ever read matches the reality I myself have personally seen and experienced as closely as Tao Lin. I think if you're fortunate enough to not be in that kind of reality, Tao's books must seem strange and pointless. But if you are in that kind of reality, or have experienced, or a neighboring one -- they are magnificent. (Every book is after all ultimately a collaboration between the author and the reader...)
I took it more as the strange pointlessness of the children of the global elite.
They have enough to survive, be hip, hang out, but no motivation to do anything with it. It’s the modern problem of the wealthy’s progeny — but unlike the 1800s there is no social structure for them to fit into. They want to be “normal” but don’t need to do the work or be a part of the normal working/family world. So they are adrift in places like Brooklyn.
Around 15 year ago I remember Tao Lin’s failed attempt to self-promote his existence on Wikipedia. It was a spam-filled marketing blitz that went nowhere for him. He kept trying to add references to himself in all these different articles where it was 1. inappropriate and 2. completely unsourced. He would modify/vandalize something like the George Washington Bridge article and put in a sentence about how Tao Lin’s latest Work was composed while sitting under that bridge. It was so stupid and his edits didnt last 5 minutes. He didn’t seem to understand how Wikipedia worked so he created numerous sock puppets that would talk to one another and try to fake consensus about matters related to Tao Lin’s notability and relevance. Eventually the admins and check-users stepped in and revealed that all the users were coming from the same IP address in New York City.
Then Tao Lin himself came in to argue his case directly — except he verified himself to the admins from that same NYC IP address. Oops. It was such an embarrassing disaster. Since then, whenever I see Tao Lin mentioned anywhere I just assume it’s just him talking about himself again.
I don’t think that anyone organically mentions him unless he spams himself first and others comment on how he is boring/no one cares/etc. Part of me thinks that he wrote this scathing review about himself — because no one would plausibly bother writing anything about him otherwise. But that seems far-fetched. The blogger is too coherent to be Tao Lin.
I found this review of Taipei to be similar to Hemmingway’s The Sun Also Rises. The casual indifference of the characters toward eachother while living in a world where they are unchallenged and taken care of by inheritance or parents.
It’s a unique type of person and scene until you run into it in real life. The connecting insight between Hemingway and Taipei to me is that this scene has actually be around for 100+ years. Kids with trust funds who travel to hip places, drink and do the latest drugs, have a thrill, but never invest in themselves, eachother, or a future.
They just wander aimlessly, seeking pleasure in a world that won’t kill them off, but won’t help them along the path to growing up either. They inhabit a thin envelope of a superficial universe that not happens to play well you YouTube.
This review might be better than the book. It's very very good.
Reminds me of watching In the mood for love (Wong Kar Wai) and not liking it, but loving the movie after having it broken down by a teacher. The breaking down stayed with me more than any scene (it's not a dig at the movie or Wong Kar Wai, go watch it it's good!)
Thanks for asking! So the movie itself is framed as the reminiscing of the man of this story, we are seeing his memories. He uses so much clever cinemtography, like framing most shots through windows or bars to give it separation from the viewer, making us almost peeping toms into the most beautiful(might not be the right word, but you understand) part of someone's life. Things like never seeing the partners of the main characters, their explanation of where the significant other being so vague and thick with subtext ( I think I remember that they subtly indicate that their partners are also having an affair together, even though it's practically impossible.) serving this sense of isolation fcrom the rest off he world, kind of like only now is real - which fits with reminiscing , to me.
What I remember most is that the female lead had a few outfits that had multiple copies of it in different colors made, and during scenes they change from one to another without attention - just like memories will fudge details but keep the larger bits intact.
I had never thought of cinema like that, making choices that the audience just feels instead of catch consciously.
I don't remember the movie, but I know that there is a police interogation that was filmed 3 times, where once the cop doesn't know the truth, one where he does and one where he is purposefully neutral, and the scene mixes all three to make the spectator feel the same sense of confusion as someone does during an interogation.
Edit: or in Dr Strangelove, where the table is green like a poker table so the actors feel the absurdity, but you don't see it because it's black and white, so it only comes through through their acting.
Wow, what a brutal review. I had to read the first paragraph several times to let the brutality fully sink in. I was hoping that it would get better, that the author would bring some positivity to the book, but that hope was in vain.
I have never heard of the book, what is the reason that this review is now posted here?
This review was one of the most unexpectedly thought-provoking pieces I’ve read in weeks. Ambush-y.
Finding it here on HN is entirely consistent (for me) with one of the ways I suspect some people use this site, which is as a repository for certain kinds of articles, papers and stories they imagine half a dozen people here might also appreciate. Sometimes they are right.
I looked up the author of the review and her other published work. This led to an issue of Zyzzyva, the San Francisco literary magazine, and fiction titled Biodome by Juhea Kim. I ordered the issue from eBay.
I’m now going to toast a bagel, then drive to the airport.
First thing I did when I got access to GPT-4 was to get it to write in the style of Tao Lin. Early experiments didn't work that well but actually this review provided me with the language to explain Tao Lin's style... I should paste this entire review into GPT-4 32K and see if it works better.
Tao Lin’s work is interesting because it makes the normally abstract philosophical questions of authorship in art suddenly a bit more tangible. Should we care what creator says about creator’s own art? People see all sorts of layers of meaning in his work, and he personally methodically debunks every such finding[0]. One might wonder, are we doing the same to works of authors who are no longer alive to correct us? Does it matter that we do it? Does author’s intent matter, or only our interpretation of the work?
My personal view has been gradually trending from “it only matters if I like it” to we should (if we are aware of it), we probably do, it does (and we shouldn’t), and yes, creators and their intent matter (although it doesn’t mean we can’t make our own conclusions and have own takeaways). Tao Lin somewhat contributed to that.
[0] Some suspect he might be doing it ironically, in what I guess would then be an immense art project encompassing his whole life.
No kidding, this review made me very interested in reading the novel. I wonder if something about a depiction of anxious, uptight, pretentious and rudderless hipsters struck a little close to home for the reviewer.
This review is less about language misuse and more talking about how the book’s particular use of language (among other things) reflects a personality and worldview that the reviewer really hates
She's saying it's a bad book, and she did not enjoy reading it.
What it talks about could be considered misuse of language or lack of skill.
Most people telling a story will try to make it more interesting. They choose words that evoke feeling. They skip boring events. They make situations sound dramatic. According to the article, this book did the opposite.
The article author suspected that the book did this on purpose, to make a point. But then she researched the book author and saw him say that he did not.
I read the book and found it literally forgettable -- as in, I remember almost nothing about it except that (a) the characters kept taking Xanax or something for stupid reasons, and (b) the cover had sort of a cool grid of letters. But the actual content? There was nothing there. I'll assume that was the point. These peoples' lives were empty and pointless, and you get to experience that in book form.
(I think there is increasingly an epidemic of people like this this, and you could speculate as to why, e.g. maybe something about breakdown of social structures, or maybe something about unhealthy environments creating autism/autistic-like traits, or maybe dot dot dot -- lots of a possibilities.)
Anyway, no author I have ever read matches the reality I myself have personally seen and experienced as closely as Tao Lin. I think if you're fortunate enough to not be in that kind of reality, Tao's books must seem strange and pointless. But if you are in that kind of reality, or have experienced, or a neighboring one -- they are magnificent. (Every book is after all ultimately a collaboration between the author and the reader...)