by Tao Lin
Book Seven
Review:
I couldn't wait to get this second collection of poetry by Tao Lin. Why? The harder it is to track down a book, the more I want and need it. In the Fall of 2008, I went to the Brooklyn Book Festival and met Tao there, where he signed my copy, that was almost impossible to find. How strange he was and the autograph isn't even a signature. Tao drew a picture on the first page and barely said a word to me. I thought maybe I scarred him when I told him that I was so excited to find two of his books. They have been sold out on the Internet and every book store I have entered in the metropolitan area. I read this book in one sitting and I have absolutely no idea what I just read. Weird, is an understatement. I have followed his blog for awhile now, I have read three of his books and I still cannot figure out why people go gaga for him. Check out a few poems for yourself and let me know if it's just me.
“Tao Lin's poetry passes by slacker era irony and self–indulgent formalism to dig up something deeper and more human, even when that something seems on first reading to merely be depressed hamsters.”
—Jeffrey Brown, author of Clumsy and Little Things
“I hope this new publisher uses my blurb this time. I was a little sad that the other one didn't use it. They could have sold tens of copies if they'd put my blurb on that book. But this book is better; these poems are serious and funny and more than they appear. I am a big fan of Tao Lin's writing and this book makes me happy.”
—Matthew Rohrer, author of A Green Light and Rise Up
