Aside from the last forty pages that seem to belong to a more darker novel, this book has spunk. It consists of all the elements that makes the thought of art school as a satirical goldmine: pretentious art critiques, raging professors, douchey pseudo-hipster students, and a hyperobservant sarcastic narrator. Almost makes me want to trade in my psychology textbooks for some paint and canvas next semester. This reminds me of what the film Art School Confidential could have been, and I am eager to move on to the book's sequal, The Learners.
"Never fall in love with an idea. They're whores: if the one you're with isn't doing the job, there's always, always, always another."
"On the first day of class, the Visual Arts building reclined before me like an old brick whore, egging me to show her one, last, good time."
"My longing for someone to talk to made Himillsy the lightning bug in my honey jar. I punched holes in the lid so she could breathe."
