Victor Mancini, a medical-school dropout, is an antihero for our deranged times. Needing to pay elder care for his mother, Victor has devised an ingenious scam: he pretends to choke on pieces of food while dining in upscale restaurants. He then allows himself to be “saved” by fellow patrons who, feeling responsible for Victor’s life, go on to send checks to support him. When he’s not pulling this stunt, Victor cruises sexual addiction recovery workshops for action, visits his addled mom, and spends his days working at a colonial theme park. His creator, Chuck Palahniuk, is the visionary we need and the satirist we deserve.
|Publisher:||Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group|
|Product dimensions:||5.20(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.70(d)|
About the Author
CHUCK PALAHNIUK is the author of fourteen novels—Beautiful You, Doomed, Damned, Tell-All, Pygmy, Snuff, Rant, Haunted, Diary, Lullaby, Choke, Invisible Monsters, Survivor, and Fight Club—which have sold more than five million copies altogether in the United States. He is also the author of Fugitives and Refugees, published as part of the Crown Journey Series, and the nonfiction collection Stranger Than Fiction. He lives in the Pacific Northwest. Visit him on the web at chuckpalahniuk.net.
Date of Birth:February 21, 1962
Place of Birth:Pasco, Washington
Education:B.A. in journalism, University of Oregon, 1986
Read an Excerpt
In the summer of 1642 in Plymouth, Massachusetts, a teenage boy was accused of buggering a mare, a cow, two goats, five sheep, two calves, and a turkey. This is real history on the books. In accordance with the Biblical laws of Leviticus, after the boy confessed he was forced to watch each animal being slaughtered. Then he was killed and his body heaped with the dead animals and buried in an unmarked pit.
This was before there were sexaholic talk therapy meetings.
This teenager, writing his fourth step must've been a whole barnyard tell-all.
I ask, "Any questions?"
The fourth-graders just look at me. A girl in the second row says, "What's buggering?"
I say, ask your teacher.
Every half hour, I'm supposed to teach another herd of fourth-graders some shit nobody wants to learn, like how to start a fire. How to carve an apple-head doll. How to make ink out of black walnuts. As if this is going to get any of them into a good college.
Besides deforming the poor chickens, these fourth-graders, they all walk in here carrying some germ. It's no mystery why Denny's always wiping his nose and coughing. Head lice, pinworms, chlamydia, ringworm-for serious, these field trip kids are the pint-sized horsemen of the apocalypse.
Instead of useful Pilgrim crap, I tell them how their playground game ring-around-a-rosy is based on the bubonic plague of 1665. The Black Death gave people hard, swollen, black spots they called "plague roses," or buboes, surrounded by a pale ring. Hence "bubonic." Infected people were locked inside their houses to die. In six months, a hundred thousand people were buried in the huge mass graves.
The "pocket full of posies" was what people of London carried so they wouldn't smell the corpses.
To build a fire, all you do is pile up some sticks and dry grass. You strike a spark with a flint. You work the bellows. Don't think for a second this fire-starting routine makes their little eyes sparkle. Nobody's impressed by a spark. Kids crouch in the front row, huddling over their little video games. Kids yawn right in your face. All of them giggle and pinch, rolling their eyes at me in my breeches and dirty shirt.
Instead, I tell them how in 1672, the Black Plague hit Naples, Italy, killing some four hundred thousand people.
In 1711, in the Holy Roman Empire, the Black Plague killed five hundred thousand people. In 1781, millions died worldwide from the flu. In 1792, another plague killed eight hundred thousand people in Egypt. In 1793, mosquitoes spread yellow fever to Philadelphia, where it killed thousands.
One kid in the back whispers, "This is worse than the spinning wheel."
Other kids open their box lunches and look inside their sandwiches.
Outside the window, Denny's bent over in the stocks. This time just out of habit. The town council has announced he'll be banished right after lunch. The stocks are just where he feels most safe from himself.
Nothing's locked or even closed, but he's bent over with his hands and neck where they've been for months.
On their way here from the weaver's, one kid was poking a stick in Denny's nose and then trying to poke the stick in his mouth. Other kids rub his shaved head for luck.
Starting the fire only kills about fifteen minutes, so after that I'm supposed to show each herd of kids the big cooking pots and twig brooms and bed warmers and shit.
Children always look bigger in a room with a six-foot ceiling. A kid in the back says, "They gave us fucking egg salad again."
Here in the eighteenth century, I'm sitting beside the hearth of the big open fireplace equipped with the regular torture chamber relics, the big iron pothooks, the pokers, andirons, branding irons. My big fire blazing. This is a perfect moment to take the iron pincers out of the coals and pretend to study their pitted white-hot points. All the kids step back.
And I ask them, hey kids, can anybody here tell me how people in the eighteenth century used to abuse naked little boys to death.
This always gets their attention.
No hands go up.
Still studying the pincers, I say, "Anybody?"
Still no hands.
"For real," I say and start working the hot pincers open and shut. "Your teacher must've told you about how they used to kill little boys back then."
Their teacher's outside, waiting. How it worked was, a couple hours ago, while her class was carding wool, this teacher and me wasted some sperm in the smokehouse, and for sure she thought it would turn into something romantic, but hey. Me being face deep in her wonderful rubbery butt, it's amazing what a woman will read into it if you by accident say, I love you.
Ten times out of ten, a guy means I love this.
You wear a foofy linen shirt, a cravat, and some breeches, and the whole world wants to sit on your face. The two of you sharing ends of your fat hot slider, you could be on the cover of some paperback bodice-ripper. I tell her, "Oh, baby, cleave thy flesh unto mine. Oh yeah, cleave for me, baby."
Eighteenth-century dirty talk.
Their teacher, her name's Amanda or Allison or Amy. Some name with a vowel in it.
Just keep asking yourself: "What would Jesus not do?"
Now in front of her class, with my hands good and black, I stick the pincers back into the fire, then wiggle two of my black fingers at the kids, international sign language for come closer.
The kids in the back push the ones in the front. The ones in the front look around, and one kid calls out, "Miss Lacey?"
A shadow in the window means Miss Lacey's watching, but the minute I look at her she ducks out of sight.
I motion to the kids, closer. The old rhyme about Georgie Porgie, I tell them, is really about England's King George the Fourth, who could just never get enough.
"Enough what?" a kid says.
And I say, "Ask your teacher."
Miss Lacey continues to lurk.
I say, "You like the fire I got here?" and nod at the flames. "Well, people need to clean the chimney all the time, only the chimneys are really small inside and they run all over the place, so people used to force little boys to climb up in them and scrape the insides."
And since this was such a tight place, I tell them, the boys would get stuck if they wore any clothes.
"So just like Santa Claus . . ." I say, "they climbed up the chimney . . ." I say, and lift a hot poker from the fire, "naked."
I spit on the red end of the poker and the spit sizzles, loud, in the quiet room.
"And you know how they died?" I say. "Anybody?"
No hands go up.
I say, "You know what a scrotum is?"
Nobody says yes or even nods, so I tell them, "Ask Miss Lacey."
Our special morning in the smokehouse, Miss Lacey was bobbing on my dog with a good mouthful of spit. Then we were sucking tongues, sweating hard and trading drool, and she pulled back for a good look at me. In the dim smoky light, those big fake plastic hams were hanging all around us. She's just swamped and riding my hand, hard, and breathing between each word. She wipes her mouth and asks me if I have any protection.
"It's cool," I tell her. "It's 1734, remember? Fifty percent of all children died at birth."
She puffs a limp strand of hair off her face and says, "That's not what I mean."
I lick her right up the middle of her chest, up her throat, and then stretch my mouth around her ear. Still jacking her with my swamped fingers, I say, "So, you have any evil afflictions I should know about?"
She's pulling me apart behind and wets a finger in her mouth, and says, "I believe in protecting myself."
And I go, "That's cool."
I say, "I could get canned for this," and roll a rubber down my dog.
She worms her wet finger up my pucker and slaps my ass with her other hand and says, "How do you think I feel?"
To keep from triggering, I'm thinking of dead rats and rotten cabbage and pit toilets, and I say, "What I mean is, latex won't be invented for another century."
With the poker, I point at the fourth-graders, and I say, "These little boys used to come out of the chimneys covered with the black soot. And the soot used to grind into their hands and knees and elbows and nobody had soap so they stayed black all the time."
This was their whole lives back then. Every day, somebody forced them up a chimney and they spent all day crawling along in the darkness with the soot getting in their mouths and noses and they never went to school and they didn't have television or video games or mango-papaya juice boxes, and they didn't have music or remote-controlled anything or shoes and every day was the same.
"These little boys," I say and wave the poker across the crowd of kids, "these were little boys just like you. They were exactly like you."
My eyes go from each kid to each kid, touching all their eyes for a moment.
"And one day, each little boy would wake up with a sore place on his private parts. And these sore places didn't heal. And then they metastasized and followed the seminal vesicles up into the abdomen of each little boy, and by then," I say, "it was too late."
Here's the flotsam and jetsam of my med school education.
And I tell how sometimes they tried to save the little boy by cutting off his scrotum, but this was before hospitals and drugs. In the eighteenth century, they still called these kind of tumors "soot warts."
"And those soot warts," I tell the kids, "were the first form of cancer ever invented."
Then I ask, does anybody know why they call it cancer?
I say, "Don't make me call on somebody."
Back in the smokehouse, Miss Lacey was running her fingers through the clumps of her damp hair, and said,
"So?" As if it's just an innocent question, she says, "You have a life outside of here?"
And wiping my armpits dry with my powdered wig, I say, "Let's not pretend, okay?"
She's bunching up her pantyhose the way women do so they can snake their legs inside, and says, "This kind of anonymous sex is a symptom of a sex addict."
I'd rather think of myself as a playboy, James Bond type of guy.
And Miss Lacey says, "Well, maybe James Bond was a sex addict."
Here, I'm supposed to tell her the truth. I admire addicts. In a world where everybody is waiting for some blind, random disaster or some sudden disease, the addict has the comfort of knowing what will most likely wait for him down the road. He's taken some control over his ultimate fate, and his addiction keeps the cause of his death from being a total surprise.
In a way, being an addict is very proactive.
A good addiction takes the guesswork out of death. There is such a thing as planning your getaway.
And for serious, it's such a chick thing to think that any human life should just go on and on.
See also: Dr. Paige Marshall.
See also: Ida Mancini.
The truth is, sex isn't sex unless you have a new partner every time. The first time is the only session when your head and body are both there. Even the second hour of that first time, your head can start to wander. You don't get the full anesthetic quality of good first-time anonymous sex.
What would Jesus NOT do?
But instead of all that, I just lied to Miss Lacey and said, "How can I reach you?"
I tell the fourth-graders that they call it cancer because when the cancer starts growing inside you, when it breaks through your skin, it looks like a big red crab. Then the crab breaks open and it's all bloody and white inside.
"Whatever the doctors tried," I tell the silent little kids, "every little boy would end up dirty and diseased and screaming in terrible pain. And who can tell me what happened next?"
No hands go up.
"For sure," I say, "he died, of course."
And I put the poker back into the fire.
"So," I say, "any questions?"
No hands go up, so I tell them about the fairly bogus studies where scientists shaved mice and smeared them with smegma from horses. This was supposed to prove foreskins caused cancer.
A dozen hands go up, and I tell them, "Ask your teacher."
What a frigging job that must've been, shaving those poor mice. Then finding a bunch of uncircumcised horses.
The clock on the mantel shows our half hour is almost over. Out through the window, Denny's still bent over in the stocks. He's only got until one o'clock. A stray village dog stops next to him and lifts its leg, and the stream of steaming yellow goes straight into Denny's wooden shoe.
"And what else," I say, "is George Washington kept slaves and didn't ever chop down a cherry tree, and he was really a woman."
As they push toward the door I tell them, "And don't mess with the dude in the stocks anymore." I shout, "And lay off shaking the damn chicken eggs."
Just to stir the turd, I tell them to ask the cheesemaker why his eyes are all red and dilated. Ask the blacksmith about the icky lines going up and down the insides of his arms. I call after the infectious little monsters, any moles or freckles they have, that's just cancer waiting to happen. I call after them, "Sunshine is your enemy. Stay off the sunny side of the street."
What People are Saying About This
Even I can't write this well.
Maybe our generation has found its Don DeLillo.
The Story Behind Choke
Bill was the first man I ever met who called himself a sex addict. This was in a church conference room, on a Thursday night, where a couple dozen men and women sat in plastic chairs around a table stained with poster paint and glue. Bill is a big guy, wearing three layers of plaid flannel shirts, with a big square chin and a booming gruff voice.
This is just after Christmas, the first Christmas in almost 20 years that Bill says he didn't spend with his wife and kids. Instead, he put on a dress and went downtown to an adult bookstore and gave blow jobs all day.
This is the world of sexual compulsives. One by one, almost everybody around that table, very ordinary folks, young and old, hip and square, men and woman, they took turns telling about their week's worth of sex with prostitutes, lingerie models, and strangers. They talked about Internet sex, public-bathroom sex, and telephone sex. None of these people were anyone you'd look at twice on the street, but their secret lives were amazing.
Everybody in my family does something compulsively. My brother exercises. My mother gardens. I write. That's part of the reason why I was at this meeting.
This is the rest of the reason:
Ten-plus years ago, my brother joked that the best place to meet women was at support groups for sexually irresponsible people.
At the time, he was engaged to a beautiful woman. She was funny and charming and looked just like Vanna White. The two of them had met at work, and my brother knew about the support groups because she went to them. They'd almost gotten married, but he'd heard some rumors about what she did while he was gone on business trips.
To resolve the issue, before he left for his next trip, he put a voice-activated tape recorded under the bed in his apartment. When he came home, the tape was run all the way through. Rewinding it and listening, he says, was the hardest thing he's ever done in his life.
On the tape, his fiancée was drunk and bringing home guy after guy -- to his bed. The second-hardest thing he's ever done was confronting her with the tape and ending their engagement.
Today, he's married with a beautiful family, married to someone else.
He told me this story one summer while we drove to Idaho to help identify a body the police said might be our father. The body was found, shot, next to the body of a woman, in a burned-down garage in the mountains outside Kendrick, Idaho.
This was the summer of 1999. The summer the Fight Club movie came out. We went to our father's house in the mountains outside of Spokane, trying to track down some X-rays that showed the two vertebrae fused in Dad's back after a railroad accident left him disabled.
My father's place in the mountains was beautiful, hundreds of acres, wild turkeys and moose and deer everywhere. On the road up to the house, there was a new sign. It was next to a boulder that lay beside the road. It said, "Kismet Rock." We had no idea what the sign meant.
Once at a toga party, I was drinking with a friend, Cindy, and she said, "Let me tell you about my mother. My mother gets married a lot." It was such a great line I used it in Invisible Monsters. I knew exactly what Cindy meant.
Part of visiting my dad was always meeting his latest girlfriend. Or wife.
Before my brother and I could find the X-rays, the police called to say the body was Dad's. They'd used dental records we'd shipped to them earlier.
At the trial of the man who murdered him, it came out that my father had answered a personal ad placed by a woman whose ex-husband had threatened to kill her and any man that he ever found her with. The title of the personal ad was "Kismet." My father was one of five men who answered it. He was the one she chose.
This was the dead woman found beside my father. She and my father had gone to her home to feed some animals before driving to my father's house, where he was going to surprise her with the "Kismet Rock" sign. A sort of landmark named for their new relationship.
Her ex-husband was waiting and followed them up the driveway. According to the court's verdict, he killed them and set fire to their bodies in the garage. They'd known each other for less than two months.
That first support group for sex addicts, I went because I wanted to understand my father. I wanted to know what he dealt with and why his life was girlfriend after girlfriend, wife after wife.
At the meeting in the church conference room, here were very everyday-looking people, telling stories that even their own spouses didn't know. I just sat there, and even though everyone was supposed to limit their sharing to a few minutes, we always ran out of time before everyone had to speak. People were so hungry to share their pain.
Several months after meeting Bill, after his story about blow jobs on Christmas Day, he came to the group upset. The fourth step in the 12-step process is to keep a record of your addiction, recording all your transgressions, past and present. Bill's wife had found his notebook. She'd told him she made copies, and -- if he didn't give her the kids, the money, the house, the cars, and then move to another state -- she was going to give the copies to all his family and coworkers.
Bill was frantic, and his only way out, he told everyone, was to go home and kill her and kill himself.
He seemed so resolved.
I kept thinking, This is how it happens. All those newspaper stories about murder/suicides, this is how they happen.
The group got Bill calmed down. He wept. A few weeks later, he and his wife had resolved to stay married and face his addiction, together.
During this time, a friend introduced me to a woman. This was at breakfast in a restaurant, and it was funny because her name was Marla. Like Marla Singer in Fight Club. I'd never met a real Marla, and it turned out she's a therapist who works with sexual compulsives. Piece by piece, the ideas and themes of Choke were coming together.
I wanted to write about the moment when your addictions no longer hide the truth from you. When your whole life breaks down. That's the moment when you have to somehow choose what your life is going to be about. Doping yourself with sex or drugs or food, or choosing something like writing, body building, gardening. True, in a way this is trading one compulsive behavior for another, but at least with the new one, you're choosing it.
Funny, but all my former junkie friends are either fervent Christians or triathletes. Nothing in half measures.
As Paige Marshall says in the book, "You have to trade your youth for something." With Choke I wanted to show someone actively choosing their future, instead of perpetuating their past.
Here, I want to tell you how lovely and clever my brother's former fiancée was.
I want you to know how happy it felt to see Bill resolve to save his marriage.
I want to tell you how my father spent years with my brother and I, building huge model train sets with papier-mâché mountain ranges and working streetlights. We'd go into town, to Bailey's Toys and Hobbies, and buy a new locomotive for our birthdays. We'd glue specks of sand, just so, to create the perfect miniature roadbed for our tracks. Yeah, it's sounds like compulsive behavior, but it was so sweet.
Here at the end, I want to thank you, for your time and attention. And thank you for taking a chance with my books. This is the story behind the story.
I'll shut up now,
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
This was the first book I have ever read by Chuck Palahniuk and I have to say I will never forget it. Sometime last year a friend gave me a list of books, one of the books happen to be Choke. She told me that the book was by the same guy who wrote Fight Club. I never new the movie Fight Club was based off a book and I thought because I enjoyed the movie so much I would give Choke a try. I found that this book was nothing like I have ever read before. It was so disgustingly enjoyable, I found myself lost in a world that I did not want to enter. Taboo isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. After I finished reading this book, I could not figure out if I really liked it or not. The book had a refreshing originality to it, but I was not sure I would want to read it again. I continued to think about the book for the next following days, then it hit me: its not whether or not I like the book, it is that fact that I am still thinking about it. I think this is what Palahniuk was truly going for, he didn't care whether people liked it or not it was that people were thinking about his book. I still think about this book today and I am still not sure whether i really like it or not. However this is what makes it wonderful, I love not being able to explain things and define them. I have decided that this is one of my favorite books not because I like or don't like it but because I can't decide.
While I did learn some new sex moves, this book is awful. Basically porn, and bad porn at that.
From the very beginning of the novel Choke, by Chuck Palahniuk, we are instantly warned, "If you're going to read this, don't bother." This warning should be discarded immediately for this book was great. The main character, Victor Mancini, a med school drop-out, is a character that you really shouldn't like, but you do. You really can't help it! His perception on life is one to really think on, and by the end of the book you don't really want to leave his twisted world. Palahniuk's diction is simple and easy to understand, yet, the way he strings them together, create a picture unlike any other. Palahniuk certainly has a way of reaching into our minds, disturbing us and all the while making his readers beg for more.
If you can not pronounce the author¿s last name, do not despair, neither can 95% of the rest of the population. What matters here is that what you are getting in this book is some of the nitty gritty you saw in Survivor and not the watered down stuff you saw in Haunted. This book, has gone on to become my favorite Palahniuk book, though I still think Fight Club may be able to dethrone it, once I frigging read it, for now this one wears the crown.
It is the messed up story of a lonely guy who works as a Colonialist¿he basically dresses up old school (literally) and plays the part of a Colonial Era citizen in a Museum-type town. I visited a place like that up in Georgetown. Kind of creepy, those places, like the renaissance festival without the turkey legs. Anyway, this guy is really messed up and lonely, taking care of his mom at an old people¿s home and getting his sexual kicks as well as his economic woes by choking.
If that does not send you rushing out to the bookstore, I do not know what will. But I do warn, beware of the sex and the language and the plain messed up ideas this man will put into your head which are entirely un-washable. Still, I gobbled this up in a weekend, because it is one of the most original and actually touching stories I have read in a while¿and its actually sort of a love story. Seriously.
For some, this book will be a fascinating peek into a very real subculture of our society, namely the lives of those afflicted by an addiction to sex. For others, the explicit sexual content will be a guaranteed trigger and recipe for sleepless nights and/or nightmares. You know yourself; take your own history into account when deciding whether or not to read this book.
Entertaining, humorous, easy read. My first introduction into Palahniuk. It's a dark book, but full of damaged yet everyday characters you'd meet the bus. I'm surprised it was 300 pages because I believe I read through it in a matter of days. A real page turner.
The title is Choke, but really, the focus of the story is sex, sex, sex. The back cover summary and the title are very misleading about the whole plot of the book.
The book, however, is full of allusions and witty lines, but they don't make the book amazing.
The introduction sets the reader up for one hell of a ride, but the rest of the book just doesn't deliver.
By the end of the story, you'll be sick of his repetitive sentences.
Well, Choke was the first book by Palahniuk that I've read, and I now want to read all of them. Choke was very different from anything that I've read before. The ending is very VERY surprising. It made me laugh, it made me cringe, it made me want to keep reading.
This Novel is set mostly at a colonial re-enactment town and makes great use of the unique setting. The two main characters make for a funny pair. This is a lighter version of the friendship we read about in Fight Club. If you have seen the movie adaption don't think it compares to this book. The thoughts of the characters are the best part of Palahniuk's writing and Choke is no exception.
Chuck Palahniuk has never let me down. Right when you think you know what to expect from him, he finds a way to shake you. This book is worth every penny, and it's content will stay in the back of your mind long after reading it.
Pornographic. Deleted it off the Nook for fear my grandchildren would pick it up. I tried to stay with it but threw it out at page 35 and I am fairly open minded. The review was certainly not accurate. If I could I would have had B & N refund my money. A big fat 0 as a rating. And they suggested it to me. It certainly isn't in my profile as a type of book I'd read.
Will keep you thinking long after your done reading it.
I love Chuck Palahniuk, and this book definitely does not disappoint! It's very interesting and somewhat twisted, and the ending is very unexpected! Love love love!
Easily one of the wierdest books i've read in a long time!
If you have read any of his other works, you will enjoy his sick look on life in this book as well. Do not assume the movie did this book any justice.
If you liked his other writing, such as Fight Club, you might enjoy this book. It is a dark, sometimes humorous, and sexually charged story. I read through this book in one week and I do not have much free time available for things I like to do.
It's a fairly good read, kinda sags in the middle and isn't really as believable as Fight Club. Writing style is extremely similar to the point where it feels like the same narrator in places, but the actual story and characters are fully unique and interesting and all the weird stuff comes together well in the end.
I have read this book three times already, every time I get something new out of it. Just absolutely amazing
Good book. Good story. Definitely would recommend. Easy read and keeps you wanting more!
This book was just okay. In fact, I almost gave it 2 stars instead of 3, but I truly believe that the author is brilliant; I just didn't see it in this book. If you really want to see his talents shine, read Survivor instead. This was a disappointment, not exactly the word I mean, but it's the one that comes to mind.
Great look at addiction and self loathing. Brilliant character.
After a few chapters I gave up - just couldn't get past all the sordid sex scenes. Glad I borrowed this book and didn't spend good money on it.
Heed the warning at the beginning of the book but if you go ahead and read it, be ready for some very raw images. Overall I enjoyed the book but some people may find its language a bit much to take. The story was enjoyable and easy to follow. The twist at the end I did not see coming. It was a good plot just a little shocking with the language.
This was my first Chuck book and I've began my quest to read more Chuck books. His writing is raw and could be seen as somewhat offensive. Keeps you hooked and guessing the whole time.
I couldn't put it down, despite being on vacation at one of the most beautiful places in the world. It has all of the twists and turns I've come to expect from Chuck's books. For me, it was a quick and thoroughly enjoyable read. A warning, however, that, as with most of Chuck's work, this is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach.