Paradise Logic oozes style. Sophie Kemp has captured with gusto the b. 1994-1997 overeducated post-college brainrot mindset. If the cover alone doesn't convince you in this is a shitpost of a novel, consider its three epigraphs: The Smiths, Epictetus (in greek, with heart emojis), Emily Dickinson. I mean shitpost in its High Art™ sense.

The plot is hardly worth mentioning; girl living in new york decides some shitty guy must be her boyfriend and that is An Unfortunate Development Maybe. What sets this novel apart is how much of a freak the protagonist is, and how blatantly disjoint all the other characters are.

“Literally sometimes I'm like: girl, did you learn about social mores from flashcards or some shit?”

There's plenty of sex, although would not call this a sex positive novel, and I'm inclined to think that sex isn't really the point. Sex (and sexual violence) isn't the point of this novel any more than overcaffeination and alcohol abuse is. The reality is Kemp is tremendously effective at depicting genuine Being. The vibe is on.

Emil's cock thrust further inside Reality's organ. "That's so fucked up," said Emil. Then he immediately became Mr. Firehose about the whole thing.

"Did you come?" asked Emil.

"I have an orgasm every time I have ever had sex," I responded confidently.

But I didn't!!!!! The word boyfriend was glowing inside of my head via an impressive vaudevillian light display, making it difficult for me to focus.

Paradise Logic is not a perfect book. The ending is a little tied together and, while good, doesn't dazzle. However, it's tremendously readable: short in the best possible sense.

Comparisons to Megalopolis (2024) have been filtering their way through my mind--the connection isn't quite there, but it may be the case that both Paradise Logic and Megalopolis are twin media flowers on the branch of our current frenetic and dreary era. The all the fuck over the place aesthetic.