How I Spent My Summer at Starbucks...
I left AHWSG with mixed feelings. On the one hand, Eggers is a talented young writer who does a good job within the literary-niche of post-90s economic boom, 20-something, existential fiction. Despite his attempts with this work, however, I just couldn't shake the feeling that this is nothing more than the product of a completely self-absorbed young man, sitting in the window of Starbucks with his laptop and half-caf mochachino with a twist of lime. Contrary to what Eggers may try to have you believe, this is not text of self reflection. He sets up the potential through the historical backgrounds of his characters, and then proceeds to focus on inane pursuits like trying to get on MTV's the Real World. Pop culture savvy image-fiction or self-absorption? I tend to follow the latter. Eggers has gone on to offend me in the past couple of months with the release of his second book - a text which he is only allowing a small, hand-selected group of independent bookstores throughout the country to carry whom he deems worthy. Noble? Maybe - but the notion that he is so accomplished so as to be able to handpick his market seems kind of phony and poseur-like for somebody who desperately wanted to be only reality TV.

The first half of the book was brilliant. The middle was torturous. The end (being that it followed so closely after the agonizing middle) just didn't feel as captivating anymore.

I disagree, however, with the reviewer who criticized Eggers for not caring about his mother and sister. There is tenderness and profound sadness there, you just have to perceive it underneath the facade Eggers constructs.

His brutal portrayal of the death of a loved one and the complication of family relationships afterward is, perhaps, too much for some readers. I found it to be honest (probably the most honest aspect of the book).

That said, I recommend this book to those with an open mind, an appreciation for ironic humor, and a tolerance for an unconventional approach to writing. It was mad. It was refreshing. But it was just a little too unedited to live up to the title completely.

The book is boring. The narrator does not care about the deaths of his parents nor the future death of his sister, so how is it heartbreaking?

Einstein was a genius. Shakespeare was a genius. Eggers is incapable of writing a book with a plot and characters.

Then, all the blurbs are lies, as they were all written my people on the McSweeney's payroll.

And then, all the insider tax and tuition snark-fests, held by pomo hipsters on college campuses are lies.

And then, all the creative-writing workshops which assign this book, as well as postmodern english classes which place it on the suggested reading lists are lies.

The sales numbers given by the corporate conglomerates are lies, aimed at bolstering their bottom line while Eggers aims to eradicate literature by spamming the bookstores with his crap, killing trees and displacing quality literature penned by indy presses.

Then, all the positive reviews here are lies, written by Eggers himself, as the New York Times reported.

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