Manifesto accomplishes two things that books like James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces could not – using experimental format to show one man’s raw life. Opening up the blank casing, a very unapologetic page one sports nothing but black text that starts at the top of the page and small numbering printed on every bottom corner. There are no chapters and there is no chronology or even a plot. Words are broken up in lines or paragraphs and it continues as such for two hundred pages exactly without a break; not dumbed down, allowing the chance to experience truly innovative media. The author himself accomplishes what thousands of writers spend lifetimes trying to depict honestly, some at the expense of their own sanity. He shows the nihilistic and existentialist thoughts suffered by America’s most broken malcontents. This gritty reality may alienate some readers, but for many it tugs at heartstrings and makes us wonder why we pushed our own parallel feelings to the backburner for the sake of fitting into society. It makes us question if we are fooling anyone with those efforts. It makes us really think why, and this book smartly doesn’t assume us incapable of making our own life assessment by offering morals or lessons meant to give us hope. The writing itself is completely bleak (a warning to the vulnerable), and the author basically tells us to find our own reason for living. Unlike most other literature, by the last sentence you are still wondering if he has ever found his.

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