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The only novel by the acclaimed author of Fight Club that I've read, this book is more or less an essay concerning the contaminating effects caused by the constant "noise" to which Americans have grown accustomed in their lives. Be it mass media, advertisements everywhere one turns, or talking heads always telling one what to do and when to do it, this noise is everywhere, and utterly inescapable, the author argues. While I generally agree with the author's displeasure over constant sensory overload, the overt bombardment of social commentary in this book is so over-the-top and unending that it is akin to the "noise" which the author proclaims to so disdain.

The author's caterwauling is intermittently suspended to give beatification to the libertine nature of the characters' sexuality. In addition, the novel’s main plot device is an epidemic of SIDS sweeping the nation, a distasteful and gratuitous illustration into the morbidly macabre mind of the author.

In summary, the author's egotistical perception of himself as a social doyen (which I've been told is a given in any Palahniuk novel) merely turns me off from his argument, causing a desire in me to stand up and scream, "ENOUGH!" Yes, silence is one of the rarest and most valuable gifts of nature. And although people are, indeed, regularly exposed to an unavoidable amount of noise throughout their day, it is ultimately up to each person whether or not he decides to get up and turn off the TV.