A prose version of the varied subject matter that Morrissey has written of in his songs mingled convolutedly within a cautionary tale about four young athletes who in their naiveté believe they may win the race against evil on a planet where humans are not really very humane. ( )

I loved this novel. It was so strange and idiosyncratic, so different from anything else I’ve ever read. Morrissey writes like Daisy Ashford all grown up. Ostensibly set in Boston in the 1970s, the story actually took place in a surreal landscape that was not meant to have the verisimilitude of any particular time and place. I enjoyed the lyricism of the writing, and in particular I don’t think I have ever read any finer descriptions of death or awkward sex.

Usually in a book, you get a lot of warning when a character is going to die, but I was taken by surprise again and again and again here. And that’s what it’s actually like in real life. The random cruelty of death is put across very effectively in this story, and this is the realism created by the seeming unreality of the plot.

List of the Lost reminded me a lot of Gertrude Stein’s book of poetry Tender Buttons, which is also extremely unusual and non-conformist. Both of those books are so far from the mainstream that I struggle to explain/defend why I like them so much, because they’re indescribably lacking in point of reference. I think the key is that with these two books, I had to engage and grapple with them and so the experience is about me plus the book, rather than the usual experience where a book conforms to my expectations and plays a movie in my mind so I don’t really have to do any work.

I’m a writer, and in the publishing industry as a whole there’s incredible pressure to conform, conform, conform and please the gatekeepers and grab the reader by the throat in the opening paragraph. I really appreciate how Morrissey totally short circuited all that. It’s incredibly refreshing to see someone follow their own star and write whatever the hell they want and then get published by Penguin.

I was delighted or deeply moved from the first page to the last. One of the most affecting and true-to-life parts was the death of one of the character’s mothers. And something that just tickled me tremendously was an extended description of the TV show Bonanza. List of the Lost also surprisingly turned out to be something of a page turner. I started off reading it very slowly, wanting to savor it all and make sure I comprehended it, but by the end I was just racing through, wondering what would happen next.

As a big Morrissey fan, I enjoyed reading his time-honored themes (such as the perfidy of: the royal family, the police, the meat/murder industry, Margaret Thatcher, and child murderers) but this time through the medium of fiction. It was so his voice that I felt as though I was hearing him read aloud.

One of the most striking things was Morrissey’s iconoclastic disregard for what anyone thinks. It’s not just the evil people in power he’s unafraid to offend, it’s everyone. Does it seem backward and unhelpful to have the villain who’s a child molester and murderer also be a gay man who frequents drag clubs? Sure. Does Morrissey shrink from having one of his characters opine that some child victims are asking for it? No, he goes right ahead and includes this abhorrent idea. Although I’m usually so easily offended, none of this bothered me because I was just so taken with the irrepressible spirit of the story. (But trigger warning for these things!)

I can’t help but notice that a lot of people really don’t seem to like this book. I’m kind of baffled. Yes, it’s weird but it’s good. I do feel a special kinship with Morrissey’s unique sensibility, but so do a LOT of other people, and Morrissey fans are ten a penny. So...? I was wondering when I was reading it if part of the reason I loved it was just that I love Morrissey. But context can’t be escaped from, it’s always there, and if I like him wearing one hat why wouldn’t I like him wearing another hat, especially when he brings the same originality, passion, and elegiac quality to fiction as to songwriting. But I don’t think you need to bring some special knowledge to this novel in order to like it or “understand” it. In the opening, List of the Lost seemed plotless and it brought Balanchine’s plotless ballets to my mind. And I started thinking about what Balanchine said about watching ballet; you don’t have to know anything, you just open your eyes and look at it and think, Is this beautiful? Does this mean something to me? Do I like this? That was kind of what I was asking myself as I read this unusual book and the answer was always yes, yes, yes. But I am going to lend List of the Lost to my friend Rebecca who is one of the smartest people I know (and yet she does not listen to Morrissey and she teaches college English) to see what she makes of it. Obviously, as with any book, it’s a matter of taste, but where are the other folks who think this tastes delicious? Part of me wants to be this book’s champion because it isn’t being appreciated, but the rest of me realizes that this book can stand on its own two feet and does not need me of all people to be its champion. (Also, if Morrissey were unable to withstand bad reviews and mockery, then he could not be still alive today.)

Morrissey’s novel also made me think a lot about my own so-called writing. As it happens, my most recently published book was also a gothic romance. My number one concern was the portrayal and representation of marginalized people, but beyond that literally my only aims were to make the book as accessible and entertaining as I could. And now I feel like, why? Okay, I write YA instead of literary fiction, but what is so great about trying to please people? (Which by the way does not work.) Isn’t there more to writing than trying to churn out a potboiler that adheres to certain conventions of how a story is supposed to be told? What do I really have to say? If I cast aside everything I think I know about my narrative identity, who or what am I as a writer? Or am I even a writer? I believe I have a lot to learn from the unabashed individuality of List of the Lost.

Now I am going to get specific about some things that happen in the story, so if you don’t want to know what happens, it’s time for you to stop reading. Spoiler alert, okay?...

List of the Lost is about a college men’s relay team on the cusp of incredible success in their sport. The four runners are physically at the peak of perfection and they have an easy and loving friendship. Then they are at some sort of runners’ retreat, and in the woods they unexpectedly encounter a repulsive old vagrant who however has a sympathetic backstory which he relates in a long soliloquy. At that point I had to stop reading, so my mind was spinning about what would happen next. In the hands of a hack (i.e. like myself), the old man would lay a curse on them and then one by one some terrible supernatural thing would befall each runner and they would certainly not win their big race and perhaps some or all of them would die. Well, in a way that’s not too far off, but my version would be very Lois Duncan/Final Destination. What Morrissey actually chose to do, though, is for the old man to try to sexually assault Ezra, one of the runners. Ezra hits him and the man falls down stone dead. (Let me say again, people die very abruptly in this novel!) The friends hide the body and run off. Then not long after, Harri’s mother dies and while Harri is at the very bottom of despair, a drug dealer who may be some sort of ghost or may be just an ordinary drug dealer, sells Harri everything he needs to end his pain and die by suicide. The remaining three are wracked with sadness and start to question the point of everything. Then a ghost appears to Ezra asking him to uncover the body of her child who was murdered decades ago. Actually, I’m going to leave it at that. List of the Lost turned out to be far from plotless; there were a lot of exciting things that happened and there was a very clear trajectory to the action. But the plot was not the main thing. And I can’t deliver the “main thing” to you in a book review. You’re going to have to find out for yourself.

[Note: I actually don't post reviews to Goodreads anymore except under exceptional circumstances. You can find my book reviews at http://brokenbiscuits.booklikes.com/blog] ( )

When you see an idol falter, you want to carry its wings and see it through. I was even prepared to give Morrissey a free pass here, based on my love for his lyrics and even for the semi-flawed last part of his otherwise brilliant "Autobiography". So, what did we face from this book?

Many reviewers seem to avoid the fact that Morrissey has actually written a couple of short books before having his autobiography published. This, however, is his first non-lyrical, fictional offering to the world.

The start was promising. A gang of men, runners all, are described using various inflections and rhymes, recalling William Faulkner and dadaistic poets, as dialogue is spurted out. Sentences like the following are often found:

Surrounded by women, some mechanically minded, some badly made-up, and all envious of one another, the boys had heartily gnawed at their iron bars and unwisely allowed alcohol a free dash at their brains because things overall mattered a little less since their track timings were now a bed of roses and their overall fitness boomed good times ahead, and what harm would a little devilment do?

To me, the first half of the book seemed more like an attempt to use clever wordplay to parlay Morrissey's own views of the world, by generally rephrasing his thoughts on murdering animals, on judges, on women, et cetera, rather than making a book come together.

In my view, the most obvious problem with this book, is that the author has simply not learned to write as a professional, and it shows, both in style and editing. Even though sentences and stanzas are beautiful to read and will be long-lasting, the book does not hold up as a whole, which pains me to say. Where Morrissey single-handedly revived lyrical writing where the whole musical universe is concerned, and made his autobiography light up the literary world some (where musical artists' autobiographies are concerned, especially), this tome is cracked.

I feel that Morrissey has tried hard to write this, while acting complacently and lacklustre with parts that clearly did require fierce editing prior to publication. He introduces the book by thanking his editor, who also edited "Autobiography", but I would like to hold her - and Penguin - to the wall for this.

So, how about that writing?

At the start of the book, Morrissey veers between describing the youthful men and their physical apotheosis, and also poetically describes the inevitable human physical downfall:

Look at them now in their manful splendor and wonder how it is that they could possibly part this earth in dirt, as creased corpses, falling back as the skeletons that we already are, yet hidden behind musculature that will fall in time at life’s finishing line.

[...]

It is certainly something to dwell excitedly within a body that fully and proudly shows whatever the person is, since we all, for the most part, struggle in haunted fashion, unaware of ourselves as flesh, looking at a future that does not show promise, or back at a past that couldn’t provide any, and permanently petrified at passing through without ever having lived.

[...]

The body is a thing only, of which we all irrationally fear … how to control, how to control … that which controls us.

Morrissey inevitably delves into gender, where men are irrevocably hailed and women are looked down upon, lost and not at all interesting, which has drawn a fair amount of criticism where writers feel Morrissey is a misogynist. The Daily Beast's article about this, titelled "Morrissey’s First Novel ‘List of the Lost’ Is a Bizarre, Misogynistic Ramble", makes valid points. Even though many an apologist may excuse Morrissey by saying he has simply painted a portrait where the characters of his book think and say these things, the fact remains, that men are intricately looked into, where women are frowned upon in a variety of disdainful ways. Examples of this:

Although the publicly confessed lust of the man must always be made to seem ridiculous and prepubescent, the lust of the woman is at first childlike and desperate – as if they know there is something about which they know nothing, and this itch takes on the aggressive – which almost never works.

Women are less of a mystery because their methods and bodies have been over-sold, whereas the male body speaks as the voice calls a halt.

Of Margaret Thatcher:

I hate womb-men like that…they just can’t wait to be one of the boys…and just watch, if she becomes prime minister she won’t hire any women into her government. Why do I even care? I mean, just look at her face.

There are some beautiful one-liners found throughout the book:

Justice and the law are two entirely different things.

Unless I am with you I shall never be where I belong.

Look at the blue of the sky and tell me why you held back. Did you think there would one day be a bluer sky and a better hour?

“I thought you’d said goodbye?” said Nails, nursing his hand. “Nails. To you … someone will always be saying goodbye …” Rims threw his final dart. With that he walked away.

It is impossible for Morrissey to deviate from his own persona. As he is a staunch vegetarian, the matter of animals being slaughtered by humans pops up from time to time:

In the church of secret service known as the abattoir this is exactly what humans excitedly do to beautiful bodies of animals who were also crafted in care by some divine creationist, yet at the human hand the animals are whacked and hacked into chopped meat whilst gazing up at their protector with disbelief and pleading for a mercy not familiar to the human spirit, ground and round into hash or stew for the Big Mac pleasure of fat-podge children whose candidature for roly-poly vicious porkiness makes their plungingly plump parents laugh loudly, as little junior blubber-guts orders yet another Superburger with tub-of-guts determination to stuff death into round bellies, and such kids come to resemble their parents as ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag.

He even gets in words about people whom he has hailed throughout his existence, e.g. Buffy Sainte-Marie and James Baldwin, paired with his hatred for the monarchy and the justice system. It could have been used better, instead of making me feel as though the book, at times, is another blog platform for Morrissey.

Some sections of the book are plainly confusing, e.g. one about former president Ronald Reagan, gender and the fictive Cartwright family:

Reagan has no time for black power, women’s rights, gay liberation, animal rights, anti-war rallies or student demonstrations. He contrasts all of the exciting changes that made America new again, and he offers old-fashioned power-politics, the type of which must always keep a profitable war on the go … everything old (including himself ) sold off like fake insurance to the all-powerful conglomerate America of Bonanza, a rich and expertly presented daily television drama where cow-rustling Ben Cartwright lives handsomely with his three sons (none of whom share one single gene, since all three are of different mothers, and, magically, all three mothers are either dead or hidden behind studio curtains).

[...]

and although deity Ben Cartwright had fathered three sons from three women who had usefully dissolved into tumbleweed, his three strapping sons themselves do not reproduce and almost never pair off for passionate romance.

And let's not miss what I think is the most written-about stanza in the whole of the book:

At this, Eliza and Ezra rolled together into the one giggling snowball of full-figured copulation, screaming and shouting as they playfully bit and pulled at each other in a dangerous and clamorous rollercoaster coil of sexually violent rotation with Eliza’s breasts barrel-rolled across Ezra’s howling mouth and the pained frenzy of his bulbous salutation extenuating his excitement as it whacked and smacked its way into every muscle of Eliza’s body except for the otherwise central zone. Both fell awkwardly off the bed, each tending to their own anguish yet still laughing an impaired discomfort of giggles whilst curving into a hunched disadvantage.

Well, bulbous salutation confronted, I will choose to put the wording out of my mind for now.

All in all, this is a fairly muddled ride through Morrissey's mind, rather than through a slew of sporting men and their lives. Opportunities came knocking, were wasted yet some shimmer like diamonds in the sky. ( )