So this is it.  This is the big bad wolf of pessimistic literary critique that will cast light on the never-ending hopelessness of all that is.

Please...

Two star review because I hear that pisses authors off.

I'd actually give it 2 7/16 stars because it pisses me off when goodreads reviewers need to clarify their rating of a book to ridiculous levels of granularity.

...and in the end that's all we can really hope for, right?  To crap on each other's and our own parades until the parade ends for each of us at the end of our myriad streets; monumental distances away from each other and yet really in the same place: at the end of the road of our dismal lives.

As I said, please.

A collection of dragged-out metaphors and dismal adjectives meant to reveal the shallowness of consciousness and put words in the mouths of those of us who have to live with the rest of you (yeah you, thinking about reading this book, I’m talking at you).  What Ligotti's work really stinks of is the ruminations of a college kid thinking those extra-deep, ever so sincere, and utterly profound (to oneself) thoughts about the futility of it all.  The Conspiracy Against the Human Race kept bringing up old Marylin Manson lyrics from my childhood to mind like, "Your world is an Ashtry.  We burn and coil like cigarettes something something something something who cares anymore that was twenty years ago."

The book brought another metal lyric from my childhood to mind for me as well: "Nice story.  Tell it to Reader's Digest." (D. Mustaine)  Because at the end of it all.  This book of sadness is just that:  Sad thoughts for sad people who feel the need to be present with their sadness in the lives and in the way of the rest of us who ARE ALREADY AWARE OF THE NIGHTMARE YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!  YEAH, WE KNOW.  Don't know why it's so surprising to you all.

If you think the presence of the sophomoric lyrics I'm pulling out of the recesses of my memories is means to dismiss my point, I'd ask you to examine the goal of the writers of those lyrics and the goal of the writer of this book and tell me the difference.

I did enjoy the literary analysis.  Interesting points are made regarding Shelly, Poe, Lovecraft (eyeroll) and others.  The ruminations on philosophical texts such as The Last Messiah are interesting, but not my bag.  The book is quite funny at points which I was surprised by, especially that part where the author compares the urge to have children to the urge to poop.  Good one, bro.

But in the end (do pessimists deserve spoiler alerts...nah I don't think they do), Ligotti betrays his own issues with Horror writers undercutting their own works with happy endings and/or ways to escape horrific fates.  He allows us to live with it all and even cope: 

Sounds good, dude.  I can live with that.