On Quietly Hostile

Did not finish. I picked up Quietly Hostile at my public library trying to get out of my comfort zone — the same visit I grabbed Love in Color — only to be smacked in the face by the dismal state of popular comedy. Who is this book written for? It’s bad. I read the testimonials on the back and wondered whether I’d read the same text as the reviewers from Buzzfeed and the other supposedly funny outlets. I gave it an honest try, made it a little past a hundred pages, and threw in the towel.

The fundamental problem is that it banalizes mediocrity. It might be funny if you enjoy wisecracks about urine, diarrhea, not taking your wife seriously (who on earth offers to make their loved one a peanut butter sandwich for Valentine’s Day?), and how much you hate your dog — but Irby hasn’t anything meaningful to say, no larger contribution to how we exist in the world. She takes the quotidian, in all its beauty (see Stephen King’s If It Bleeds for the counterpoint), and ruins it with triviality, cynicism, and general unpleasantness. Frankly, it should never have been published, and from now on I’ll be suspicious of anyone who praises Irby’s work. If this is in any way the state of American comedy writing, it’s a genre I’ll keep away from.