The Psychedelic Genome Project by Francis Fletcher
Midway though this novel its author does this reviewer a terrific favor: he succinctly explains the book's central failing.
Maybe at this point in the narrative it would be appropriate to talk about the wonderful scenery, the strange customs of the hill tribe folk or the lives and amusing stories of the other trekkers. However, I'm going to be honest and admit that I was way too fucked up to remember any of that.
Perhaps that is the point, but it makes for boring reading. Revealing that his he and his girlfriend's lovemaking now involves her now wearing a strap-on dildo, we get this commentary:
I'm dreading the long journey home.
It hurts when I sit.
HAW HAW HAW! How transgressive! When one thinks of the incredible scenes that could be written about a couple negotiating such a decision, the essential humanity that might be revealed, one soon realizes the utter lack of imagination the author displays, deploying a joke that Dane Cook would probably cut.
As the narrator's depiction of his descent into alcohol, prescription drug, and Thai ladyboy abuse accelerates, he reminds us -- repeatedly -- that we are watching a soul plunging into the abyss of complete depravity.
Never forget that when in hell: you will burn for all eternity.
Gotcha. Also, the narrator is going totally insane!
Congratulations, you have reached the end of this section of the guide book and the general consensus is that you are now
TOTALLY FUCKING INSANE
Oh, okay. Is there anything else?
The reader should, by now, be fully versed in the opportunities that tropical islands offer when it comes to going completely insane.
Excellent. That's all?
Good luck on the continuation of your journey through hell…
Well, you get the idea. After a while The Psychedelic Genome Project appears to be that queerest of breeds, a novel written by someone who has never read a novel. Well, there are some call-and-response sections akin to those found in Fight Club, but for all I know he just saw the film. The Matrix receives an incredible number of references, I suppose for its universally acknowledged intellectual heft.
One wonders what might good it might have done Mr. Fletcher to read the tale of another sexually-ambiguous Englishman debauching himself in another foreign locale, Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano. He might have created a deeper and less repetitious work, or perhaps he would have been so intimidated by Lowry's novel so as never to attempt his own story at all.
And really, I'll say, I think that would be a shame. As much of a slog as The Psychedelic Genome Project can be, its third act is something of a wonder. The total soulless dick of a narrator finally gets his. My respect is such that I actually don't want to ruin it, just in case any brave soul out there winds up reading this book besides me. I found myself abruptly swept along by the story, and upon reaching the end was left wondering what the fuck had just happened to me.
In many ways the pleasure of the last section is predicated on the reader's eventual assumption that the book will never get any better. When it does it really blows you away.
That said, upon reflection it's still a bad book. The dull parts are just way too dull. But I guess it's still better than The Celestine Prophecy or something.
