Dear Mr. Unabomber by Ray Cavanaugh is a satire that's too satirical for its own good. Or, at least, that's what I hope it is!

The premise is this: a losery guy, kinda like Holden Caulfield, only you aren't ever given any reason to care about him, writes letters to the Unabomber, praising him generally, and telling him vignettes from his own life, giving you less of a reason to care about him.

I'm sure there was a point buried somewhere in the text, but I admit, I wasn't willing to dig deep enough to find it. It seems that Cavanaugh thought to throw pearls to the swine, and then make the reader rake through the subsequent pigshit to find the hidden gem. Got better things to do, sorry.

I'm not sure what else to say, other that, while this book wasn't terrible, it seemed lacking in point and direction, being just words on a page, with no intent to build or destroy a character. You're better off with books like Little Billy's Letters. ( )

"Dear Mr. Unabomber," by Ray Cavanaugh, is an an epistolary novel, composed of letters written to Ted Kaczynski, the infamous Unabomber, by a young college student. The author of the letters to Mr. Kaczynski reveals his inner thoughts and the workings of his mind through the letters. He details his observations of his world, what appears to be a very lonely world. Much of his character is thus revealed in the letters he writes. The reader stands right over the shoulder of the young man writing the letters observing his journey of self-discovery as a young man. We learn of his experiences in college and his reaction to them. His views toward women are also graphicallly revealed to the reader as well.

The book is replete with many of the author's own illustrations and drawings. Mr. Cavanaugh obviously is talented as an artist as well.

Overall, I felt the book was well-written, and the epistolary style worked well. I enjoyed the book very much, especially from a psychological perspective of the letter writer. I certainly give the book 5 stars and recommend it highly. ( )

Ray Cavanaugh’s first novel is both parts funny and sad. It’s a little bit lonely, this college student (our narrator) seeking comfort in Ted Kaczynski, the legendary Unabomber. The story itself is a brilliant work of satire, and its ominous nature only makes it funnier. Since the novel is written in letter, it’s important to note that Cavanaugh’s writing is smart, perceptive, and snarky when it really counts.

And so it begins, the author chronicling the daily tribulations of a college student (as well as the big picture stuff). He writes to Ted, making observations about the world around him without once asking for any semblance of advice or even a response. That’s the beauty of it. Readers can get the feeling that the narrator is alone, very alone, but that he’s going to be okay; he acknowledges his isolation in his own otherwise average world.

Things can get a bit dicey when you stop to think on the heavier sentiments – the trying to understand the inner workings of the Unabomber’s mind. While the tone, the author’s core writing style is light and witty, the narrative has an undercurrent of dark sophistication. And even when the novel turns to adult themes (though more dispassionate than sexual), Cavanaugh never succumbs to cheapening his story. The most important relationship in the novel remains that of the one between the narrator and Ted K.

The one-sided bond portrayed in this story is a powerful one. The narrator even likens the Unabomber, his somewhat imaginary friend, to a poet at one point. He muses, “What sort of poet were you? Doubtful you were one of the Romantics. Although your bombs burst with passion, your career dragged on far too long to warrant even a whisper of romance.”

It’s sweet, the way he gives a branded criminal the benefit of the doubt. He chooses to see parts of his past as a way in which to break free from societal norms. And anyone unwilling to make that point might be ignorant to the main points of this book. The story is beautiful, it’s honest, and it delves deeper than most might, considering the subject. It’s enigmatically capricious, but still comfortable, like the pages of an old friendship.

I’d recommend this story (and Ray Cavanaugh, in particular) to anyone looking to expand their mind, their view of history, and find irony in the humor behind all human interactions. ( )

I love books narrated in first person by overtly disgusting protagonists (e.g., American Psycho). This particular Unabomber-worshiper is another proof that every little shit is his own worst punishment. As a woman, I find his warped misogyny hilarious (sour grapes, anyone?).

Once we get that out of the way - yes, the protagonist is quite the opposite of likeable; there's no law that they all have to be likeable - the style or, rather, stylization, is fantastic. It works better for readers who are familiar with epistolary genre: its old-fashioned structures harmonize beautifully with modern realities, reminding us that some parts of human nature never change. I get a feeling that people who profess to hate it most are those who recognize some part of themselves in the twisted mirror Mr. Cavanaugh holds up to his contemporaries' faces - and recoil in self-loathing, protesting too much. Way too much.

P.S. Love the illustrations. The subtle combination of the author's obvious artistic competence and the overt childishness of the lines highlighting his protagonist's immaturity - priceless! ( )

It's always a worry, with books narrated by ugly, shitty people--am I falling into a spurious conflation of character and author (call it the Proustian Fallacy)? Even if said conflation is not spurious, is it not beside the point in evaluating a work's quality; is not the author dead, and a book that can give us insight into the shitty ugliness of the ugly and shitty a worthwhile thing?


The particular variety of ugly, shitty person we're dealing with here is a solipsistic, sophistic, sneering middle-class shitbag who has never met a woman he didn't hate or a human he didn't despise, with the exception of ol' Ted Kaczynski, whom you remember from his mail bombs and fat, uncut manifesto. He loves the internet and feeling superior to everyone in a gross Leopold/Loeb-lite way. And he is tedious and makes me want to wash my brain with his jokes about "wiping DNA off her face while the roadie takes the donkey back to the U-Haul" (don't ask who "she" is--in this book the answer is probably "a bitch" or "a whore"), and THAT is the problem here, what separates the Proustian Fallacy from the Ayn Rand Drizzling Shits--we're not privileging the author in a bad old-fashioned way by treating his opinion as relevant; it's just that an author who is so transparently partisan to his awful protagonist is going to make excuses for him.


And since he is creating him, that means this book is apologetics and a colossal waste of time. There is a moment when the Misogynistic Tenderness of the Teenage Boy in the narrator speaks to the MTTB in all of us, as he writes about the indifference and delight of his first relationship and the way she "trembles" when they do stuff. And there is a moment where you can see redemption, when he aaaaalmost realizes just how sad and empty and communications technology-mediated his life is and that that's why he's reaching out to the Una. But it passes. And he stays in that awful sneering place, and we're left with that woman-hate, what I'm gonna call the New Misogyny--post-sixties, post-women's rights movement, post-internet porn flood--and that's about all.


Be good to women, men. And don't fantasize about hurting the stupid. And don't have delusions of grandeur. And . . . don't use so many adjectives. ( )