J. S. Foer is a third-generation
American-Jewish writer and so are all the characters he writes about. In some small way. The worlds they inhabit, however, are fantastical, whimsical and full of
war and
sex, which, to Foer, are the deepest things there are as he is an
atheist.
He makes himself laugh in front of an open Microsoft Word document by typing phrases
like "heavy boots" and "to have shit inbetween the brains" and "beating one's
boner" and "dipshittake"; which is a rather
pathetic thing for a man of his success level to be doing. He is married, which means he once had a girlfriend, which is surprising.
No, I do not have a girlfriend either, which is why I am on this site, making myself laugh in front of an open Internet Explorer Window.
His first novel was highly and almost ubiquitously acclaimed for its bravery, emotion, power, insight, nobility, literary aesthetic, lack of paragraph breaks, typographical farts, and clever use of the thesaurus function in Microsoft Word.
These reviews made
people who didn't review books confused, saying, often, "I thought it was really cool, but I didn't think it was...(quote from reviews here)."
Students of literature liked this book, because it was easy to interpret and write about at great lengths, and yet complex and open to different interpretations due to its abstractness of... not really symbolism, but something like that.
Also, because it made them cry on every odd page and laugh on every even page.
His second was somewhat highly acclaimed because those critics who didn't hate it immensely felt
awkward giving it a "OK" review in contrast to a terrible review.
These reviews made
people who
don't write reviews very confused about what they were supposed to
like and what they were supposed to think was garbage.
Students of literature read this book and realized that Foer writes without any regard to meaning whatsoever, and that his first book was good largely by mistake, and are really upset that his
work has been translated into over... what is it? Fifty languages? Seventy? because when the nuclear warhead drops on New York City
like Foer thinks is going to happen, the
people five-hundred years from now will have a copy of his second novel and think that that's the best that we could do.
