All Over but the Shoutin’ by Rick Bragg
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
I don’t need to like this book. Nobody needs to like this book. Rick Bragg loves himself enough for any three or four civilizations full of readers, writing page after page of bloated, purple prose about his family’s dire origins and his own, brilliant genius. I read long past when I really thought to give up to see if there was anything redeeming, anything to rate the five stars that most people seem to give this memoir cum poverty pornography. I never found it. So let me know. Why, when all I see is page after page of contemptuous irony– Bragg going on and on about his successes and his differences from his origins. He’s a brilliant star who some how made it out of the hollers and hicks and dumbfucks of Calhoun County, Alabama! Here’s another chapter on how his other brother just don’t know what he’s missin’, with his manual labor and yard full of chickens, bless him, Bragg’ll come home every few years to report on it. Please.
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