Pygmy is a test of resilience. Palahniuk manufactures Pygmy’s pidgin to be jarring, sputtering, and sometimes incomprehensible in a way that made reading the novel arduous and, at times, slightly boring. Pygmy follows a formula: dull moments heightened by the experimental language (a tactic which sometimes feels trite), shocking moments of blood or gore or other depravity, thrilling moments of nail-biting suspense, and then the cycle repeats. 

i cannot condemn this novel. overall i found it intriguing, and Palahniuk is exceptional at making his readers squirm.  yet i also cannot exalt this novel. it felt, particularly at the end, like a chore i needed to complete. the plot itself was surreal and exciting, and yet the way Palahniuk approached it felt slightly inadequate. i had, by the middle of the novel, gotten used to the strange pidgin—but it was not nearly as engaging of a literary device as, say, A Clockwork Orange’s languagescape. 

Pygmy is okay. that’s all, i guess.