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From Barnes & NoblePalahniuk's writing is percussive. It's the relentless tattoo of terraced, one-sentence paragraphs cascading in a stacatto down the page: Like a flashing strobe. Remaking you into a glossy eight by ten. Anno Domini. The reinvention of the self. Palahniuk writes the way you'd look on an overdose of Valium, but how you feel on PCP—calm on the surface and roiling below. Then—Pow! Bam! Kablooey!—seuzures in the pelagic deep blue send tiny shockwaves into the shallows. Wearing away the sand. Wearing away the shore. Changing the shape of the continental shelf. Repeat.
Time Out New York