Less Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction 2018
Reviews
As one of the passages in the book says: Who cares about the sad life of middle aged white gay man? I tried my best to finish the book, to lure out the sympathy for the 49-year old (just before his birthday, obviously) failed novelist who was pretty much feared everything in his life. As the wedding invitation from an old flame came in the mail, he decided to take a trip around the world instead because he couldn’t simply face it. What otherwise could be brilliant narration and interactions with other characters in the book along the journeys could be interesting and enchanting, they were just plain boring. Maybe Pulitzer books aren’t just for me
arthur less is on the edge of 50 years old, fizzling professionally as a writer, single, gay, generally lost. when he receives a wedding invitation from his ex, he decides to accept every other invitation he receives over the same timeframe, from a book talk in mexico to a birthday celebration in morocco, from teaching a five-week course in germany to writing an article about kaiseki in japan, providing him an excuse to skip out on the wedding. along the way he reckons with his life and how, though it rarely turns out like we plan, can still be filled with joy and meaning and of course, love <3 i really loved this book. like really really! it's whimsical, sweet, incredibly smart and playful. BUT this book is like an ogre, which is to say it's like an onion, which is to say it has layers, people! for the most part, it was a fun and clever romp around the world, uniquely descriptive without being overwhelming in its descriptions, but within arthur's journey we are also treated to moments of extreme tenderness. it'll get ya right in the feels, i swear. arthur less is a great character. flawed to be sure, but amidst his... let's call it wallowing, he is shown such beauty. i wanted to smack him on the head and tell him to wake up to it all, but he comes around. and honestly, it's thanks to the handful of the most well-rounded minor characters that he finally does. from zohra, the moroccan birthday girl, to bastian, his brief german fling, to rupali, his host in india, the minor characters shared something special with less and as a result with the reader. i found myself making quite a few highlights along the way as i want to hold on to these nugz of wisdom.
Traveling across the world at 50 all the while discovering and learning to accept himself. Surprisingly enjoyed this.
This is a book about: nothing. There is no plot, we follow a character which has no development going country after country and thinking of his past partners. Boring. There is nothing here, the writing is not bad but nothing remarkable, there is literally nothing that stands out in this for me. I guess the point of the author is that we can’t feel sorry for Arthur, as the narrator points out, but if there’s nothing happening apart from boring descriptions, the character doesn’t change and we can’t connect with the main character, what’s the point?
im scared of getting old,,
spent weeks on the first 50 pages but finished the next 200 in two sessions. what a delightful, funny, tenderhearted story. our protagonist’s memories being doled out as he travels the globe to avoid an awkward wedding of his ex-lover, his self-deprecating cynicism matched only by his hopeful innocence; i loved it all. complex relationships, beauty in mundanity, and a sense of humor about it all. unexpectedly sweet with a string of hope throughout all of the follies and anxieties.
4.5 stars
I don't know why this won a Pulitzer....... #dnf
Just not for me. It felt very stale and dry. The longer I read the more I found myself not caring what happens to the main character. But who knows I may re-read some day and enjoy it more.
What an amazing book. I enjoyed the playfulness of the story and ridiculousness of it all. Greer really captures issues surrounding gay men. I couldn't help but laugh throughout the book and see the struggles Arthur Less went through. Bravo! I recommend to anyone looking for a ridiculously fun story and heartwarming as well.
** spoiler alert ** Reading this book feels like having a long conversation with your best friend. Some depth, a lot of fun, a little bit of awkwardness, some surprising reveals, but both of you are going to remain the same people at the end of it. -> Conversations with the side characters could have been more than just surface level thoughts. -> I probably missed it, or it was possibly not the purpose of the book, but the lack of character growth in Less is slightly bewildering; it is possible that Greer wasn't going for a character development journey... Excited for the sequel!
3.5 ⭐️
This was nice and light in drama, lots of reflections on love, commitment, aging. An interesting trip and funny moments made this a good relaxing and fun read.
absolutely loved this book. review to follow
This was lovely. Even though this book didn’t live up to its “funny” reputation, for me personally, it was a perfectly lovely read. The global trotting around looking for something that is waiting for you right at home, combined with the beautiful prose and capability of the author to paint a vivid picture with words made this worth the read. Surprisingly, a book for optimists and happy-ending-lovers.
story- all over the place writing- trying really hard to be quirky™️ overall- boring and dry. am i missing something or did this not feel pulitzer-y?
Avoid the ache, embarrassment, and pain of loss and love by accepting every meaningless literary invitation in the drawer—Less regrets he cannot attend. So we as readers are taken on an untidy, beautiful, deeply flawed road trip, loosing luggage along the way, to finally understand that “happiness is not bullshit.” Highly recommended.
** spoiler alert ** I’m a real sucker for a happy ending.
Meh.
So witty, clever and endearing.
/ he kisses—how do i explain it? like someone in love. like he has nothing to lose. like someone who has just learned a foreign language and can use only the present tense and only the second person. only now, only you. /
this novel was… beautiful. i loved the prose, which is always the first thing i look for in a book. and it wasn’t just passable: it was lovely. so very lovely. i think that there’s a certain kind of grief that invariably accompanies aging—even at the relatively young age of seventeen, i worry—and the way greer explores something so delicate, and all of the intricacies of it, through arthur’s introspection is so relatable, and so vivid. i don’t think i’ve ever read a protagonist—except maybe theo—who’s so human, so vivid, as arthur less.
there’s so many lines that stand out to me, but especially we’re too old to think we’ll ever meet again. there’s so much to love with the characters—zohra, javier, and, of course, arthur—and so much to feel: the gravity of aging and the gravity of relationships fallen apart and the gravity of being perceived all at once. and love. (after all, what could be more important than love?) I think we knew all along who the narrator was—who else could it be?—but the ending, oh the ending. anyway it is 4:04 am as i type this absolutely scattered and incoherent review that does not in the slightest do andrew sean greer justice. but i do think it is worth mentioning that this is the fifth book in four years to really impact me in any way. for what it's worth.
„Less“ von Andrew Sean Geer hat 2018 den Pulitzer-Preis gewonnen, eine Auszeichnung, der ich ehrlich gesagt wenig Beachtung schenken. Über dieses Buch bin ich eher zufällig im lokalen Buchhandel gestolpert und der Klappentext klang recht interessant. Anfangs fiel es mir schwer, einen Einstieg in die Geschichte zu finden. Arthur Less ist fast 50, ein Mann und homosexuell Ich bin etwas über 40, eine Frau und hetero. Viele Gemeinsamkeiten gab es zwischen mir und dem Protagonisten nicht. Dennoch ist mir Arthur im Laufe seiner Erlebnisse ans Herz gewachsen. Er ist ein sehr freundlicher, zurückhaltender und bescheidener Mensch, der allen anderen den Vortritt im Rampenlicht lässt und sich eher als Anhängsel bedeutsamer Leute sieht, jemand, der nur in Verbindung mit anderen Personen wahrgenommen wird, nie als er selbst. Less hat außerdem, so sieht er es zumindest, kein Glück in der Liebe und als sein letzter Partner ihn für einen anderen verlässt, flieht er vor einer unangenehmen Situation, vor der Liebe und vor seinen Gefühlen. Doch wo immer er auf dem Erdball auch ist – seine Vergangenheit holt ihn überall ein, zwingt ihn dazu, sich mit seinem Innenleben auseinanderzusetzen und seine Leben aus anderen Blickwinkeln zu sehen. Alles dreht sich in diesem Buch im Kreis: Vergangenheit und Gegenwart holen sich ein, Alter und Jugend, Verlassen- und Gefundenwerden. Es ist eine sehr melancholische, aber liebevolle Erzählung mit einem sympathischen Charakter, dem zugegebenermaßen die Ecken und Kanten fehlen, aber er ist einfach ein bisschen „weniger“ als andere. Eine nette, unaufgeregte Story für ein paar ruhige Lesestunden.
I had really hoped to like this book, but apparently my picks for the past couple months are not home runs lol. The prose is well done, but the story fell flat for me. Again, I had a problem with the pacing (which seems to be a running theme recently for the books I’ve picked up) and found myself wishing to dive a bit deeper into Arthur Less as a character. I didn’t get emotionally attached to him at all, but I really wanted to. The last thing that took me out of the book was the narrator and the POV that the book is written in. Sadly, this book wasn’t for me.
This is masterful writing.
Highlights
He is remembering (falsely) something Robert once told him: Boredom is the only real tragedy for a writer; everything else is material. Robert never said anything of the sort. Boredom is essential for writers; it is the only time they get to write.
And I say I’m ready. And he says for what? And I say to think about more important things. And he asks, ‘More important than what?’ ‘More important than love.’ And he looks at me like I’m crazy and says, ‘What could be more important than love?’”
We stood quietly as a cloud went over the sun and sent a chill across the roof. Less looked over the railing at the street below.
“Well, that’s my dream.”
“She told me she met the love of her life,” Zohra says at last, still staring out the window. “You read poems about it, you hear stories about it, you hear Sicilians talk about being struck by lightning. We know there’s no love of your life. Love isn’t terrifying like that. It’s walking the fucking dog so the other one can sleep in, it’s doing taxes, it’s cleaning the bathroom without hard feelings. It’s having an ally in life. It’s not fire, it’s not lightning. It’s what she always had with me. Isn’t it? But what if she’s right, Arthur? What if the Sicilians are right? That it’s this earth-shattering thing she felt? Something I’ve never felt. Have you?”
Twenty years of joy and support and friendship, that’s a success. Twenty years of anything with another person is a success. If a band stays together twenty years, it’s a miracle. If a comedy duo stays together twenty years, they’re a triumph. Is this night a failure because it will end in an hour? Is the sun a failure because it’s going to end in a billion years? No, it’s the fucking sun. Why does a marriage not count? It isn’t in us, it isn’t in human beings, to be tied to one person forever. Siamese twins are a tragedy. Twenty years and one last happy road trip. And I thought, “Well, that was nice. Let’s end on success.”
“I am not to meet you again, am I?”
. . .
He must have been lonely a long time to stand before Arthur Less and ask such a thing. On a rooftop in Paris, in his black suit and white shirt. Any narrator would be jealous of this possible love, on this possible night.
And Less feels it swelling up within him, the phrase he does not want to say and yet, somehow, by the cruel checkmate logic of conversation, is compelled to say: “Thank you.”
Why didn’t he say yes? [His] voice from the past: You want me to stay here with you forever? Why didn’t he say yes?
. . .
Because it would have been impossible.
He kisses—how do I explain it? Like someone in love. Like he has nothing to lose. Like someone who has just learned a foreign language and can use only the present tense and only the second person. Only now, only you. There are some men who have never been kissed like that. There are some men who discover, after Arthur Less, that they never will be again.
Less knows so well the pleasures of youth—danger, excitement, losing oneself in a dark club with a pill, a shot, a stranger’s mouth—and, with Robert and his friends, the pleasures of age—comfort and ease, beauty and taste, old friends and old stories and wine, whiskey, sunsets over the water. His entire life, he has alternated between the two. There is his own distant youth, that daily humiliation of rinsing out your one good shirt and putting on your one good smile, along with the daily rush of newness: new pleasures, new people, new reflections of yourself. There is Robert’s late middle age of selecting his vices as carefully as ties in a Paris shop, napping in the sunlight on an afternoon and getting up from a chair and hearing the creak of death. The city of youth, the country of age. But in between, where Less is living—that exurban existence? How has he never learned to live it?
What Frank wrote: It’s a summer day, and I want to be wanted more than anything in the world.
She sends her love. No rancor, no feelings at all.
costume after costume. Each one is a joke, and the joke is on him: Less the gentleman, Less the author, Less the tourist, Less the hipster, Less the colonialist. Where is the real Less? Less the young man terrified of love? The dead-serious Less of twenty-five years ago? Well, he has not packed him at all. After all these years, Less doesn’t even know where he’s stored.
Brief flash to six years ago, seeing his silhouette in the theater and thinking: Here is a good companion. A man he almost stayed with, almost loved, and now he does not even recognize him on the street. Either Less is an asshole, or the heart is a capricious thing.
By the end, Arthur Less is in tears, sobbing in his seat, and he thinks he has been sobbing quietly until the lights come up and the woman seated beside him turns and says, “Honey, I don’t know what happened in your life, but I am so so sorry,” and gives him a lilac-scented embrace. Nothing happened to me, he wants to say to her. Nothing happened to me. I’m just a homosexual at a Broadway show.
“The key to speaking a new language,” she told them, “is to be bold instead of perfect.”
And there is his three- vear-old daughter, who runs around wearing nothing but a rhinestone necklace (who wouldn't, if they could?).
Zohra's voice comes loudly from her camel: "Shut the fuck up! Enjoy the fucking sunset on your fucking camels! Jesus!"
It's a sad little cockfight they arrange because they have no talent themselves.
"How did they even know I was gay?" He asked this from his front porch, wearing a kimono.
Any twenty five year old who says the word refinance should be taken out and shot. Talk about love and music and poetry. Things everyone forgets they ever thought were important. Waste every day, that's what I say.
Mescal turns out to be a drink that tastes as if someone has put their cigarette out in it.
Was this how men felt? Straight men? Alone so often, but if they faltered if they lost a wedding ring! then the whole band of brothers would descend to fix the problem? Life was not hard; you shouldered it bravely, knowing all the time that if you sent the signal, help would arrive. How wonderful to be part of such a club. Half a dozen men gathered around, engaged in the task. To save his narriage and his pride. So they did have hearts, after all. They were not cold, cruel dominators; they were not high school bullies to be avoided in the halls. They were good; they were kind; they came to the rescue. And today Less was one of them.