The Tunnel (Dalkey Archive Essentials)

I got 100 or so pages into this and lost all interest in wrestling with it any further. There is absolutely no continuity or any "story" to latch on to here and as a reader I felt as if I were being toyed with. This is a rambling incoherent unpleasant task of a chore to undertake and is not in the least bit interesting. Gass seems to hate everything about life itself and being a human being and his bitter sarcastic pontifications soon wear very thin and the immense struggle involved in merely trying to follow what the hell he is doing here is not worth the effort. An extreme frustration on every level and just crashingly boring and senseless. I am not at all opposed to "difficult" books and Absalom, Absalom, Sound And The Fury, Ulysses, Gravity's Rainbow and Tristam Shandy are all favorites of mine so I don't mind putting in the work to try and follow along with a book that is considered to be very hard to read but this one doesn't offer the reader any kind of reward or joy in experiencing an expertly crafted book. It is just simply way too arduous to even look forward to picking it up again each evening. I got to where I had just had enough and my patience with it's meandering drivelish methodology simply wore out. I can't honestly recommend this and just don't see any point in it. The only other time I felt like this was when trying to wrestle through the ponderous machinations of Borges, another frighteningly obtuse, pompous jerk of a "writer". Sorry, Mr. Gass I think you really failed here with this mutilated patchwork.

Jesus. Christ. This a nightmare. A gorgeous, linguistically breath-taking masterwork 26 years in the making, but a nightmare none the less. William Frederich Kholer, who might or might not be a proxy for Gass himself, just vomits hate at EVERYTHING. His placid, academic life, his miserable midwestern childhood, his straight-out-of-a-nightmare parents, his feckless colleagues, his wife, his kids, his students his culture, his age, and above all, himself.And yet the whole thing is told in a crazed first person voice that moves with hypnotic virtuosity between flashbacks of domestic life, bitter childhood reminiscences and that is shot through with rants, screeds, dirty limericks, experimental typesetting and word play so acidic and so funny that I actually found myself laughing out loud at several points. Like Celine, Gass creates a sickifying, vaguely fascist logic that seems to reach out, grasp at, and state right into the very worst parts of oneself. If Dante's inferno had a 10th level, it would be sitting in a room having a conversation with this books narrator.This is a potent, at times jaw-dropping work of literature, and easily stands toe to toe with the more widely celebrated works of its age, but it's also an invitation to explore raw hatred in its numerous, crippling forms. The Tunnel offers a crushing, deforming view of humanity and history that I was almost completely revolted by. It's also, I think, a masterpiece. Pick this up at your own risk

Consider that William Gass created this masterpiece over roughly the same time frame it takes to pay off the average mortgage -- 652 pages in 30 years. One has to respect such care in crafting The Tunnel. How many times was this draft edited to create in essence a final draft written at the plodding, prodding pace of 22 pages per annum? Gass took more time crafting The Tunnel than Joyce did Ulysses. And it shows. The syntax is not of this world. His use of metaphor is off the charts in its creativity. There are worlds, even galaxies, in his words. The writing is sheer poetry in places -- a pure joy to read. He is honest, pithy, probing, penetrating and very often hilarious in his Notes from Underground. Like Proust I recommend that you read Gass slowly to revel in the world in his every well-placed word. There is unquestionable genius in this work as evident as the genius of William Gaddis or Joyce or Proust. Gass and Gaddis redeem the contemporary American novel and Dalkey Archive should be congratulated for its devotion to publishing American masters whom America has not yet properly recognized as such. I really can't say enough in praise of this substantive literary novel, which is profoundly wise and brilliantly crafted and even luminous as a literary legacy sure to render Gass prominent, permanent billing among the American masters of the late 20th century. Savor the writing of William Gass: real genius resides underground in The Tunnel.

Through my entire lengthy reading of The Tunnel, I have had a tough time deciding what I think of it. On the one hand, Gass’ writing is extraordinary and from that standpoint, this is an extraordinary book. On the other hand, his protagonist, William Koehler, is an extraordinarily horrible human being: racist, misogynistic, sexist, selfish, egotistical, etc. etc. In the end, while I will probably not be able to bring myself to read it again, I think it is one of the truly great books of the 20th century although I can fully understand why some would find it to be pure garbage.

650 pages of cathartic hate, enmity and disappointment in every relative, coworker, lover Kohler ever knew. It doesn't matter to me how much the other reviewers have loved the author's use of language. The usage doesn't overcome the repetitive hate, dislike, disappointment Gass expresses through Kohler. The book got very tired very quickly....and then there were only 600 more pages of the same disgust to read! Didn't find it funny at all. Sad, sad that a smart guy like Kohler can only find disappointment in the human race...over..and over..and over. A tunnel and a book to nowhere. The road is not pretty. Save your money and and buy an anthology of limericks. And I did find it funny that Amazon's description seems to have mixed up Gass with Gaddis(see above).

Unbelievable, appalling, heartbreaking, cruel, magical—the way art should be.

Great book, great word choices, pure prose

Ron Potter here. You have to be brave or warped to read this book. A fascinating read

The most stunningly written book I've read in a long time, somewhere between Laurence Sterne and Nabokov.

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