Did Not Finish.

I picked up Quietly Hostile at my public library because I was trying to get outside of my comfort zone (and it was on the same visit that I picked up Love in Color), only to be smacked by the dismal state of popular comedy.

Who is this book written for? It’s bad. I read the testimonials on the back, and wonder if I read the same text as reviewers from Buzzfeed and other theoretically funny publications.

I gave it an honest try, made it a bit over 100 pages through, and threw in the towel.

The ultimate issue with the book is that it banalizes mediocrity. It might be funny if you like wisecracks about urine, diarrhea, not taking your wife seriously (who the hell offers to make their loved one a peanut butter sandwich for Valentine’s Day), and how much you hate your dog, but Irby does not have anything meaningful to say. There is no larger contribution to thinking about how we exist in the world.

Instead, she takes the quotidian, in all of its beauty (see Stephen King’s If It Bleeds for a counterpoint on this) and ruins it with triviality, cynicism, and general unpleasantness.

Quite frankly, it should have never been published, and I will–for now on–be suspicious of anyone who praises Irby’s work. If this book, in any way, reflects the state of American comedy writing, I think it’s a genre I’ll keep away from.