BOOK REVIEW: The Life Of God (As Told By Himself)
by James MacLaren
Franco Ferruci, 1996, University of Chicago Press
Goodness sakes alive, whatever can I properly say about this one? Just put it
down and I know that I need to say something before the memories of the read
start to shimmer and disappear into the mists of my own personal past.
Even God Himself has problems with His memory, to which he freely admits
throughout this wonderful, inexplicable, occasionally annoying, oftentimes
The thing operates at several levels simultaneously, and steadfastly refuses to
maintain any one guise.
Part of the attraction of the book is how it has the uncanny ability to keep you
expecting something really cool about to happen shortly, but never delivering.
All the while, feeding you all sorts of other things that you weren’t really
expecting and that after suitable contemplation, you discover were quite cool in
and of themselves. At which point, you go right back into expecting all over
again, only to be rewarded as before. Weird.
Outrageously iconoclastic, the story rebuilds the icons, phoenix-like, from
their own clasts.
Moses is an ambitious bastard, up to no good.
Mary is a prostitute.
Jesus drank too much.
God’s not fully in control of pretty much anything at all, especially those
things He creates, and is stumped for answers to even the most simple of questions.
And yet, despite the story’s wry distortions, epic questions get puzzled over
and given their due.
And the due they are given is worthy.
Damned if I know what to say about this thing.
Read it, memorize it as best as possible, and then go regurgitate it all over
the hardshell, fundamentalist, dipshit of your choosing. Add, embellish, and
generally modify things as whim and circumstance dictate.
This fucker’s got some awfully good bullets packed away inside of it.
Put them to the use for which they were intended.