Choke
7.42 / 10 225K ratings
- Language
- English
- Published
- 2001
- Publisher
- Doubleday
- Pages
- 304
- ISBN
- 9780385501569
Victor Mancini has a unique way of making a living. A medical-school dropout working at a colonial theme park, he spends his evenings dining in upscale restaurants where he purposefully chokes on his food. His saviors, feeling responsible for the life they've just saved, become a source of income, sending him checks to support him. This elaborate con pays the bills for his mother, who is wasting away in an expensive private nursing home, her mind clouded by dementia. Between scams, Victor cruises sex addiction support groups for action, trying to manage a compulsion that offers only fleeting connection.
As Victor visits his mother, he is pulled back into a confusing childhood, piecing together the fragments of her past that she can no longer hold. Her scattered memories contain a secret about his own origins, a truth he is desperate to understand before she forgets it completely. The novel is a darkly humorous exploration of addiction, fraud, and the desperate, often bizarre, ways people search for connection and identity in a world that feels designed to keep them apart. It questions the nature of salvation and forces a look at who is really saving whom.
As Victor visits his mother, he is pulled back into a confusing childhood, piecing together the fragments of her past that she can no longer hold. Her scattered memories contain a secret about his own origins, a truth he is desperate to understand before she forgets it completely. The novel is a darkly humorous exploration of addiction, fraud, and the desperate, often bizarre, ways people search for connection and identity in a world that feels designed to keep them apart. It questions the nature of salvation and forces a look at who is really saving whom.
Other editions (91)
Listen to the summary Narrated summary
If you're going to read this, don't bother. What you'll find here is the story of a man with a system. I go into a nice restaurant, wedge a piece of steak in my throat, and wait for a hero. The moment someone wraps their arms around me, thrusting their fists into my diaphragm, they're hooked. They've saved a life. They become responsible for me, sending letters and checks for my birthday, for my mother's care. It's a con, sure, but it's also the closest I get to family - a sprawling, ever-growing collection of saviors who need me to be their one good deed.
When I'm not dying for a living, I'm a sex addict. Nights are spent in the basements of churches, sitting in a circle with the real-life subjects of urban legends. The woman who got her stomach pumped and found a gallon of semen, the man who got stuck in a vacuum cleaner - they're all here. My best friend, Denny, is here too. He's trying to manage his own compulsions by collecting one rock for every day he stays sober. By day, we're trapped in the 18th century, working at a colonial reenactment theme park where the petty tyranny of our boss is just another cage. We are historical interpreters, living lives that aren't our own, surrounded by people who are just as lost.
The reason for all this, the anchor holding me to this life, is my mother. She's fading away in a care facility, her mind a flickering ruin of what it once was. She doesn't recognize me as her son, Victor, so I visit her as ghosts from her past - her old court-appointed lawyers, men she remembers with a clarity she can't afford me. In these moments, her stories spill out, fragmented memories of a life on the run, of stealing me from foster homes and teaching me a worldview built on rebellion and chaos. I remember her standing me before a cliff face in the freezing night, the headlights of a stolen school bus illuminating my small frame as she spray-painted the outline of my shadow on the rock. “Art never comes from happiness,” she told me.
Then a new variable enters the equation: Dr. Paige Marshall, my mother's physician. She is intense, all sharp angles and unsettling focus, and she sees something in my mother's incoherent ramblings. She offers a strange, terrifying hope - a radical treatment that could restore my mother's mind. But to understand the cure, she says, we must first understand the disease. She finds my mother's old diary, a volume filled with what she claims is Italian, and begins to translate it for me.
The story Paige unspools is a masterpiece of delusion. According to the diary, my mother, unable to conceive, joined a secret effort in Italy to clone a human being from a holy relic. The relic was the preserved foreskin of Jesus Christ. Of the six women implanted with an embryo, only one pregnancy was successful. The result, Paige tells me with unnerving certainty, is me. I am the Second Coming, a biological duplicate of the savior, living a life of quiet desperation in modern America. The idea is so insane it feels almost true, a missing piece that clicks into the puzzle of my broken life.
This new identity, this divine joke, sends me spiraling. I am no longer just Victor Mancini, med-school dropout and sex-addicted con man. I am a failed messiah. Meanwhile, Denny's rock collection has grown from a coping mechanism into an obsession. Our house is slowly filling with stone, the foundation of some new world he's building inside the old one. We are two men constructing our own realities - his from granite and sandstone, mine from a lie so profound it might as well be scripture.
The truth, when it finally arrives, is crueler than any lie. Paige Marshall is not a doctor; she is a patient, just as lost as my mother, living in a fantasy she constructed from my mother's own fragmented stories. The diary wasn't in Italian; it was gibberish. I am not the son of God. I am the son of a madwoman. In the midst of this revelation, I go to my mother for a final visit, armed with chocolate pudding and a desperate, half-formed hope of performing a miracle. I try to feed her, to save her, to force life back into her. In my clumsy attempt at salvation, she chokes. For real, this time.
In the end, I am an orphan. My scams are exposed, and my carefully curated family of saviors turns on me, a mob furious at the theft of their heroism. They descend on Denny's creation, tearing down his strange, beautiful castle of stone. But in the wreckage, something shifts. Paige is there, stripped of her delusions but real. Denny and his friend Beth are there. We stand together in the rubble, four broken people with no past to cling to and no future to speak of. All we have is a field of scattered rocks and the quiet, terrifying freedom to decide what to build next.
When I'm not dying for a living, I'm a sex addict. Nights are spent in the basements of churches, sitting in a circle with the real-life subjects of urban legends. The woman who got her stomach pumped and found a gallon of semen, the man who got stuck in a vacuum cleaner - they're all here. My best friend, Denny, is here too. He's trying to manage his own compulsions by collecting one rock for every day he stays sober. By day, we're trapped in the 18th century, working at a colonial reenactment theme park where the petty tyranny of our boss is just another cage. We are historical interpreters, living lives that aren't our own, surrounded by people who are just as lost.
The reason for all this, the anchor holding me to this life, is my mother. She's fading away in a care facility, her mind a flickering ruin of what it once was. She doesn't recognize me as her son, Victor, so I visit her as ghosts from her past - her old court-appointed lawyers, men she remembers with a clarity she can't afford me. In these moments, her stories spill out, fragmented memories of a life on the run, of stealing me from foster homes and teaching me a worldview built on rebellion and chaos. I remember her standing me before a cliff face in the freezing night, the headlights of a stolen school bus illuminating my small frame as she spray-painted the outline of my shadow on the rock. “Art never comes from happiness,” she told me.
Then a new variable enters the equation: Dr. Paige Marshall, my mother's physician. She is intense, all sharp angles and unsettling focus, and she sees something in my mother's incoherent ramblings. She offers a strange, terrifying hope - a radical treatment that could restore my mother's mind. But to understand the cure, she says, we must first understand the disease. She finds my mother's old diary, a volume filled with what she claims is Italian, and begins to translate it for me.
The story Paige unspools is a masterpiece of delusion. According to the diary, my mother, unable to conceive, joined a secret effort in Italy to clone a human being from a holy relic. The relic was the preserved foreskin of Jesus Christ. Of the six women implanted with an embryo, only one pregnancy was successful. The result, Paige tells me with unnerving certainty, is me. I am the Second Coming, a biological duplicate of the savior, living a life of quiet desperation in modern America. The idea is so insane it feels almost true, a missing piece that clicks into the puzzle of my broken life.
This new identity, this divine joke, sends me spiraling. I am no longer just Victor Mancini, med-school dropout and sex-addicted con man. I am a failed messiah. Meanwhile, Denny's rock collection has grown from a coping mechanism into an obsession. Our house is slowly filling with stone, the foundation of some new world he's building inside the old one. We are two men constructing our own realities - his from granite and sandstone, mine from a lie so profound it might as well be scripture.
The truth, when it finally arrives, is crueler than any lie. Paige Marshall is not a doctor; she is a patient, just as lost as my mother, living in a fantasy she constructed from my mother's own fragmented stories. The diary wasn't in Italian; it was gibberish. I am not the son of God. I am the son of a madwoman. In the midst of this revelation, I go to my mother for a final visit, armed with chocolate pudding and a desperate, half-formed hope of performing a miracle. I try to feed her, to save her, to force life back into her. In my clumsy attempt at salvation, she chokes. For real, this time.
In the end, I am an orphan. My scams are exposed, and my carefully curated family of saviors turns on me, a mob furious at the theft of their heroism. They descend on Denny's creation, tearing down his strange, beautiful castle of stone. But in the wreckage, something shifts. Paige is there, stripped of her delusions but real. Denny and his friend Beth are there. We stand together in the rubble, four broken people with no past to cling to and no future to speak of. All we have is a field of scattered rocks and the quiet, terrifying freedom to decide what to build next.
What other readers say
Liked
Readers praise this book for its compelling and unique premise, often describing it as a bizarre yet deeply funny and innovative dark humor journey. Many found it thought-provoking, appreciating how it delves into numerous complex themes such as aging, death, love, addiction, and identity, often inspiring introspection about one's own life. The writing style, characteristic of the author, is noted for its satire, wit, and engaging pace, making for a fast-read despite its substantial content. The main character is frequently highlighted as fascinating and complex, despite his flaws, and some reviewers found themselves surprisingly sympathetic to his plight, with certain parts even described as touching. The narrative's ability to turn expectations on their head and its exploration of the human condition, even amidst the grotesque, is often cited as a strong positive.
Disliked
However, the book also draws significant criticism, primarily for its often offensive, gross, and explicitly disgusting content, including graphic sexual scenarios that some found overdone and solely for shock value. A common complaint among seasoned readers of the author is that the book feels formulaic and repetitive, lacking originality in its character archetypes, narrative structure, and thematic exploration compared to his earlier works. Some reviewers expressed a complete inability to connect with or care about any of the characters, seeing them as one-dimensional or caricatures. Concerns were also raised about the implausibility of the plot and the contrived nature of some events, leading to a breakdown of suspension of disbelief. The writing style itself, with its frequent use of short phrases and repetition, was found jarring and annoying by some, and certain recurring descriptions were deemed nauseating.
In short
Overall, this book elicits a polarizing response, with readers often finding themselves in a love-it-or-hate-it dilemma. It is widely acknowledged as not being for everyone, particularly those easily offended by explicit content or who prefer conventional narratives. However, it is highly recommended for existing fans of the author who appreciate his distinctive style, dark humor, and willingness to explore uncomfortable truths. It appeals to readers looking for a challenging, thought-provoking experience that pushes boundaries and encourages reflection on societal norms and personal struggles, even if it means navigating through unsettling and sometimes crude material.
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