A friend of mine, who I would describe as a Brooklyn hipster if I weren’t somewhat intimidated by the broadness of the term and uncertain if this friend might take offense at my naïve use of such a label, once commented that while he felt Tao Lin did a decent enough job of writing about twenty-something ennui, Lin’s work failed to offer any solutions or demonstrate any way that one might transcend the state in which his characters existed. This friend of mine went on to say that he felt as though the logical response to literature that concerned itself with notions of boredom, indifference, and apathy was, well, an apathetic one. I know this isn’t the only interpretation of nor reaction to Tao Lin’s work, but I think it’s worth examining because this particular friend of mine seems to more or less belong to what Lin himself has described as his target audience.

My friend is college-educated, young, bearded, wears jeans that approach skinny, lives on the outskirts of Williamsburg, and so fervently thinks that black t-shirts with graphics of wolves howling at the moon on them are awesome that I question whether his taste in such clothing is earnest, operates on a number of ironic levels, or earnestly operates on a number of ironic levels. I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that this friend’s outward appearance, and really the way in which I’ve described him above belies his intelligence, creativity, sensitivity, complexity, and the fact that he is not merely a nameless stereotype. Evidence of this is demonstrated, it would seem, when he says he is unmoved by Lin’s fiction. Which isn’t to say that this friend doesn’t necessarily at times have a similarly detached world-view as say, Sam in Shoplifting From American Apparel, but that this friend rather feels that to be passionate of a novella that seems marked by its dispassion would represent cognitive dissonance. In other words, as a reader, it doesn’t make sense to my friend to be enthusiastic about characters and a story that are unenthusiastic, or engaged by writing that paints a world of disengagement. The problem, as he sees it, is that any reader who enjoys Lin’s work for its disinterest should, through their enjoyment of the work, cease to be disinterested, and, as such, should cease to enjoy Lin’s work.

Of course, my friend’s concept of what Lin’s work is about is not shared by all of Lin’s proponents. I’ve read comments by readers (who at the very least give the impression of being smarter and better educated than myself) that the short, simple prose Lin uses is intended to mask a staggeringly deep emotionality. More directly, that his work has more to it than its surface appearance. I’ve read allusions to this effect often, though I’ve never actually read any that could articulate precisely what this underbelly of Lin’s work was.

Personally, the fiction by Lin that I’ve read has come across as largely about disillusionment. I read Shoplifting From American Apparel as a one hundred and three page build up to a final punch-line. I laughed out loud when Sam’s answer to the question of what he had wanted to be when he grew up was a marine biologist—largely because I remembered that period in elementary school when no one could imagine a better job than being one of those guys at Sea World who got to train dolphins. That final line, for me, was the crux of the story, revealing the disappointment and absence of hope Sam felt about his adult life.

Of the negative reviews I’ve read about Shoplifting From American Apparel, most have complained that the novella wasn’t really about anything. Ostensibly, (and I promise this is the only time I’m going to use quotation marks) some things “happen,” though none of them really seem to “matter” either to the characters or the plot. Fair enough. I’ve also read commentary that compared the sort of blunt straightforwardness of Lin’s prose to that of a child’s, which I think is somewhat harsh. Even so, it is undeniable that Lin’s style, at least in Shoplifting From American Apparel, is distinctly sparse, and I have to wonder if this manner of prose, whether intentionally or unintentionally, creates a blank template for the reader to project their own thoughts, feelings, and eventually meaning onto the text.

To clarify, I have wonder if my own interpretation of Shoplifting From American Apparel is dominated by my own ambitions as a writer and identification with Sam’s struggles and what I read as dissatisfaction with a writer’s life. Likewise, I have to wonder if someone with girl problems reads Shoplifting as a novella about the emotional wreckage caused by failed relationships, and if someone with shoplifting problems reads it as a story about the causation and effects of their thievery, and so on and so forth.

According to the inside flap of Shoplifting From American Apparel, it is a vague, life-affirming book about how everything is simultaneously beautiful and sad, which I suppose I sort of get and sort of don’t and sort of question whether that description is a joke. For that matter, I am decidedly unsure of where I come down on the book and, more broadly, Tao Lin’s work. Perhaps that friend of mine’s ratiocination for his opinion was spot on. Perhaps the only logical response to vague writing is to feel vague about it.

Still, obviously, I’m interested, in spite of or maybe because of my indecision regarding the merit of Lin’s work. I’m interested if there will be any progression in the Lin’s writing in the forthcoming Richard Yates and I’m interested if Lin’s style can sustain itself for fifty thousand some odd words. And I suppose it goes without saying, though I’ll say it anyways, I’m interested if Richard Yates will cement my opinion of Lin’s work or if it will leave me feeling as vague as ever, possibly wondering if he’s played a terrific joke and I’m just not getting it.

Whichever way, yeah, I’d like a free copy.