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YOU MUST READ THIS! Have to have to! And you will. It must be one of the BEST (FINEST) novels of all time. (& y'all know that this is the sole topic I will NEVER joke about.)

Seeing the elusive, the ephemeral, through different filters--a jaguar prowling through the jungle, a baby left all alone, as if you had the privilege to do so in the first place. "Blonde" is a privilege to read-- the rarest of rare novel/poetry book combos. Why read itty bitty poetry in its refracted, basically restricted state? Read novels, exemplary novels like this one, for a novel like "Blonde" kicks the ass of those tiny singular books... there is poetry in each and every page. Undertaking this journey is a huge endeavor for the reader. This humongous tale for the reader is a grotesque fairy tale through & through.

Norma Jean's thoughts/actions occur in present tense, in actual time, & also in fatalistic retrospection. It is a topsy turvy house of horror.

This is an expert fictionalization; momentous literature which must be absolutely devoured.

The saga is sublime. The topic, the figurehead that is Marilyn Monroe, is and has been ultimately misinterpreted. But thanks to Joyce Carol Oates (give her a Nobel already [I mean, even Coetzee and Saramago have one!]) and her extensive research, the meat on the bones are as beautiful and enigmatic as the person herself (and by this, I mean Monroe AND J.C.O.: their collaboration is what dreams are made of. Their nightmare is our heaven).

(Strange to figure how many modern actresses wish to emulate the gorgeous blond, they try time after time, and the great actress tried so much to be the character she was chosen to portray. She was even painfully paranoid of her fictional characterizations drifting into her real life like ghosts!)

Consider Oates's Norma Jean as a 20th century Emma Bovary-- but with something to offer the outside world. And of this many great Hollywood men took notice, and the exploitation that ensues is demonic. The elusive father figure-- Norma Jean never met hers, and so what happens is a collection of men she disgustingly refers to as "Daddy." (see? Even porno stars want to be Marilyn!) She becomes addicted to Codeine tablets, super quick solutions to issues which stem all the way from infancy. There is a patina of infinite sadness, of devastation being covered up for the sake of illusion and the glimmering of the silver screen. The novel is filled with endings-- conceivably, almost every section in the story could be a possible way for Oates to finish her masterpiece-- the prolongment is absolutely masochistic and inspiring, if that makes any sense. The novel that starts off with dolls, star homes and star funerals is undoubtedly what awaits the girl (beautiful and young corpse) at the end. Everything: sad, with a foretaste of certain doom, of impending tragedy. The girl devoted to God and literature and meaty roles (as evidenced by her poems and musings which) beg the reader to feel defensive of her, of this child in a woman's body, The Woman's body. The cooly complex metaphysical stuff (this is a 21st century novel after all and all the Greats brought out all their tricks at this point) is infused with intelligence, and, yes, MAGIC. Marilyn is a woman who falls out of time. She recalls scripts that have never even existed before but compete with her actual life-- she's smart beyond recognition, she is not DUMB AT ALL. She juxtaposes art with life, and this is what all actresses, all good actresses, must feel for their art. She suffers for her art like any other artist worth his or her salt.

It is pretty rare for literature to be so perfectly precise in emulating the theme and source it describes: like the person herself (R.I.P) the novel, for me, will remain unique and unforgettable.