Yesterday, I posted that I was reading Chester Brown's Paying for It. Basically, it's an autobiographical graphic novel about how Brown paid prostitutes for sex.
I think I got it yesterday in the mail and finished it last night. Generally speaking, I didn't really like it.
Mostly, it's depressing. Which isn't to say it's not accurate. I got the sense it was very accurate. Brown kept a diary of when he did who, and that's the structure that guides the narrative.
But Brown is a nerd/robot, and because of that, you don't get -- well, I was going to say, much in the way of feeling, but really you don't get any feeling at all.
Brown feels kind of dead.
Dead to me. To him, I think he feels like himself. He's very mechanical. Logical. Thorough.
But it's sort of like watching someone fuck a hole in the wall.
You get glimpses of the women, who are mostly disguised -- by speech bubbles over their faces or the absence of specific details -- but not a lot.
Mostly, I felt like the book read like a polemic that was pretending to be a diary. Brown is a fan of the legalization of prostitution. Which is fine. I don't have a problem with that.
There's a lot about his troubles with love, but in the end, it's like his real issue is a lack of ... passion.
Which left me feeling like I ate a sandwich with nothing in it.
Aesthetically, I loved it. It's all tiny boxes, and little opaque people, and the sex scenes are like a sperm trying to penetrate an egg. I liked the way it looked the best.