I’ve now read enough online reviews of Tao Lin’s book, Taipei (2013) to know exactly how
they’re supposed to go. First—more important than the book—we need to describe
the author or the generation he’s supposed to represent: a hip, ironic, narcissistic, “computer
literate,” stupid male in his late twenties who frequently indulges his Twitter account. Next, we opt to leave it to the
audience as a matter of personal preference as to whether or not the book is
good or bad— because while as critics we acknowledge the intricacy and skill
displayed in the language of the book—the content is so specifically mundane
(and or provocative re: drugs), by the end of the review, we will have decided
that the book is in fact bad, very bad. In the Guardian’s review, Ian Sansom sums
up Taipei’s autobiographical character, Paul, as “having nothing to say but
still saying it anyways,” showcasing a scene in which Paul’s burrito arrives
and Paul notices “with preemptively suppressed interpretation that his, of the
three, appeared slightly darker.” Of course, enjoying such a sentence would be
a matter of personal preference—as to whether or not you have a sense of humor—
or if possibly you’re a critic with a pre-assigned agenda to stamp out Tao
Lin’s book like it’s the precursor to the Zika virus.
--Speaking of humor, let’s pause while I list the food I ate
today:
10:05 am: a banana and orange juice.
11:45am: whey protein and milk.
2:00pm: 10piece McDonalds nuggets.
To a regular reader, the preceding list might come across as
relatively mundane or boring. While we could always debate whether or not the
list is interesting, a large amount of information was still conveyed in a
relatively compact way. You have a rough approximation of my sleep schedule,
health concerns (or lack thereof)—possibly even financial info. In a very
similar way, Lin’s book feels to me much like an extremely efficient time
capsule which has been scrubbed and rescrubbed of unnecessary or external data.
If re-read again, sure there will be possibly boring passages, but when has
literature ever not been boring. To
me, one of the reasons I picked up Lin’s book is I’m genuinely tired of reading
about homicide detectives or anything with zombies or Nazi’s in it.
Boredom—aside from the traditional “im stuck on an island/mountain/forest”
plotline—seems like a relatively underused device these days.
Even with the notes on kale consumption, Lin’s book does
make for an enticing story. Lin does a smart job of dropping the reader
directly into the middle of social scenes to create for a brisk, readable pace that keeps the book afloat amid Paul’s lengthy inner thoughts like early in the
first chapter, “that the universe in its entirety was a message, to itself, to not
feel bad—an ever-elaborating languageless rhetoric against feeling bad—and Paul
was troubled by this...suspecting that his thoughts…at some point, or years ago…
had been wrong, but he had continued in that wrongness, and was now distanced
from some correct beginning to a degree that the universe (and himself, a part
of the universe) was articulately against him.” Very early on then, the
narrator is open to admitting something is a bit internally crooked somewhere, but
for the same reason, critics dock Taipei because
Paul’s mind is an apparently inhospitable place for the reader to live. It’s
not just Paul however; Paul’s friends are often described as comically disconnected
from their surroundings (“Charles who had sold most of his belongings …in preparation
to live alone in Mexico because he felt ‘alienated.’ ” “Matt said he drove a
rental car without a plan to Maine ate seafood in a restaurant alone—‘it was
really good’ Matt said, briefly displaying a haunted and unenthusiastic expression.”)
and so the reader begins to understand that there’s something more at stake
here than one individual’s depression.
As for living in Lin’s mind, I found myself usually more
entranced than disturbed (“Something staticky and paranormally ventilated about
the air, which drifted through a half-open window, late one afternoon, caused a
delicately waking Paul, clutching a pillow and drooling a little, to believe he
was a small child in Florida..”) This isn’t to ignore the more disturbing parts
of Taipei, but even Paul’s escalating
drug use is wiped clean of any melodrama or self-pity. A scene in which Paul
and Erin are packing and preparing to go the airport, coming off of their
repeat bender, reads like a well-crafted anti-drug campaign showcasing two
strung out shells of former people. Nothing is pretty, but the stilted and awkward
interactions feel dead real. Lin also seems to understand that even though the writing
is based on a painfully real account of Paul’s life, the reader still needs to
move toward some version of a climax and resolution. My one large complaint then is some of the
final scenes of Paul and Erin in Taipei (at McDonald’s) do in fact come across
as relatively anticlimactic, but the book still moves along to a beautifully crafted subsequent finale.