OUTBURSTS OF A PRETENTIOUS HYPOCRITE; THOUGHTS OF AN ENLISTED SLAVE (YEAR THREE)

This third installment of a memoir follows another year in the writer’s life and his never-ending search for meaning.

Balor’s book opens in November 2018, when he was living in an attic apartment. The 27-year-old American, who took a job as a dishwasher, was prone to apathy, self-loathing, boredom, and melancholy. But he did not suffer from depression. Dismissing mental illnesses, he called the American Psychiatric Association a self-fulfilling “government-approved cult of identities.” He rarely had lasting relationships; at one point, the author fell for a woman who wouldn’t leave her live-in boyfriend, with whom she certainly wasn’t content. Balor regularly engaged with others in philosophical conversations, though he fixated on life’s purpose. “What is your self-assigned meaning of life?” he asked people he had just met, including cab drivers and bar patrons. Sadly, enlisting in the Navy did not save the author from what he deemed a “sick life of senseless pursuits.” His time at boot camp left him craving solitude. After someone stole pages from his journal, he realized that the Navy wasn’t the place to bolster his personal education or hone his writing. Presented as a journal, with intermittent poetry and short fiction, Balor’s latest installment is as despondent as his preceding books. Yet there are fleeting moments of hope, such as his acknowledgement that he was in love and a happy childhood memory. In addition, he offers intriguing insights throughout the lucid work. While he asserts that his purpose is “to write,” his continual questioning of others is a clear, admirable attempt to find personal meaning. As he said to a friend, “We evaluate ourselves based on the community that we’re amongst; it’s a reflection.” It’s evident in the fiery volume that he doesn’t care who he offends or provokes, labeling the military “luxurious enslavement” and mocking the diagnosis of autism. He also disparages readers and periodically insists they stop perusing his book, which he repeatedly calls “tripe” and “trite.”

A somber and incendiary but often insightful, philosophy-laden chronicle.