![]() ![]() ![]() Readers will be disappointed by this strained attempt at comedic memoir. Irby can be remarkably candid, as when she admits to having a “running inner monologue recounting every horrible thing I’ve said or done since I can remember first publicly humiliating myself,” one that “never shuts the fuck up or goes away even for a minute.” This emotional honesty is the book’s best feature, but is less appealing than it might have been, due to the hectic tone. She also overemphasizes showbiz references-at one point, she imagines her life as a wacky Hollywood comedy, and at another point, as several seasons of a TV show. ![]() Ted Beranis I like to sit at home in mild terror as the world rages outside without me, hoping that no one is going to. In a crisis, circling life’s drain, as Irby calls it, don’t cling unnecessarily to dignity. ![]() In recounting a period in her life that saw her attain success as an author, endure a frustrating flirtation with Hollywood, and move from Chicago to Kalamazoo, Mich., “where the most popular bar has a mechanical bull,” Irby primarily aims to amuse, but the humor is one-note, leaning too much on double exclamation points, triple question marks, and caps lock, and too little on original observations. Samantha Irby, whose new book of essays is Wow, No Thank You. These three collections Wow, No Thank You, Meaty, and We Are Never Meeting in Real Life which span a decade, ought to be read together, with this latest as a coda, striking its valedictory note and reiterating the refrain that runs through the essays. This overly manic collection from blogger Irby ( We Are Never Meeting in Real Life) hints at the author’s talent, but ultimately disappoints. ![]()
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