With hours to go, I clocked in at 50,044.
Such horrible prose, such a wandering plot.
Such a pretty, pretty picture.
At Kathy's, a biologist can pull a plastic container from her refrigerator, casually sit down at the dinning room table, and spend two hours sorting through a hundred ziplock bags filled with fecal samples from bighorn sheep, mountain lions, and bears, and she will never bat an eye. "Make sure my cats don't get into that."
In the best classical tradition, this epistolary novel strives to make sense of the world in which the letter-writer finds himself, alone and misunderstood by everyone.
Whom is a young man to call upon to share his yearning for a simpler, more natural life? The narrator appeals to the Unabomber, Ted Kaczynski, whose deranged Santa Claus image transfixed him as a boy and whose terminal anti-tech vendetta now captivates him in these ever-more-simulated days.
Having procured the Unabomber’s inmate address from the Internet, the narrator uncaps his pen and starts writing letters. Lots of them. Letters about college that feels like glorified obedience training; about the prospect of mediocre careerism sitting on his head like an obese girlfriend; about relationships guided by fashion-magazine tips; about the conservation land where he puffed his first joint being paved over for luxury housing; about his best friend gradually opting for more cyber-chat and less real-life interaction . . .
With humor, self-deprecation, and irony that are only intensified by despair, Dear Mr. Unabomber explores the barrenness and lavish conformity running ghostlike in circles of the MySpace hell. When you have no one else to turn to, Ted Kaczynski must become your BFF.