Josh Peterson Missing (2018)
I went into this expecting something along the lines of a criminal investigation, partially due to the blurb on the back cover, and partially the Amphetamine Sulphate web page describing it as a true crime novella. I suppose it isn't that the description is in any sense inaccurate, but its meaning is broader than one might expect given the title of Missing with its implied absence of either bodies or evidence. Rather, the crime and that which is deemed to be missing is something of the contemporary human psyche. Reducing the book to its most basic state, it's Josh Peterson pointing out where we've all been going wrong over the course of fifty or so pages - a monologue randomly swerving into forensic digressions which illustrate the main argument without its principal points seeming anything other than incidental. It would be a rant but for the absence of wrath, or even anything particularly judicial. Practically speaking, this takes the form of a trawl through the minutiae of a daily existence most of us will recognise to one extent or another, even if we haven't directly lived each detail. It's mostly on point, or at least well-aimed, and so sobering as to be almost chilling.
I wish I had more to say about Missing, but the novella itself has already said everything; which is why you should read it. In fact, maybe everybody should read this one.
I went into this expecting something along the lines of a criminal investigation, partially due to the blurb on the back cover, and partially the Amphetamine Sulphate web page describing it as a true crime novella. I suppose it isn't that the description is in any sense inaccurate, but its meaning is broader than one might expect given the title of Missing with its implied absence of either bodies or evidence. Rather, the crime and that which is deemed to be missing is something of the contemporary human psyche. Reducing the book to its most basic state, it's Josh Peterson pointing out where we've all been going wrong over the course of fifty or so pages - a monologue randomly swerving into forensic digressions which illustrate the main argument without its principal points seeming anything other than incidental. It would be a rant but for the absence of wrath, or even anything particularly judicial. Practically speaking, this takes the form of a trawl through the minutiae of a daily existence most of us will recognise to one extent or another, even if we haven't directly lived each detail. It's mostly on point, or at least well-aimed, and so sobering as to be almost chilling.
I wish I had more to say about Missing, but the novella itself has already said everything; which is why you should read it. In fact, maybe everybody should read this one.
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