Notes on My Uncle Oswald by Roald Dahl

*Warning: spoiler alert*

Oh YeSsSsS. Roald Dahl’s Uncle Oswald makes me weak. Addled. Affronted. Completely antagonized. But most notably: ALARMED that such an author made his name by writing children’s stories. Therefore, I want to offer a brief word of warning to any parents of any little oompa loompas out there who may have stumbled across this review:

In case you were a fan of the unsuspectingly macabre Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (it’s amazingly possible that our beloved Mr. Wonka, in fact, killed all his child guests save Charlie...so metal.) or James and the Giant Peach (also kinda fucked up) and consequently think, “Dahl is a charming, wholesome, totally innocent children’s book author, and I’m sure Uncle Oswald will be a pure, respectful, and exemplary role model for my kid to read about,” think again. Do NOT give this to your children unless you hate them and want them to grow up to be colossal pervs, misogynists, racists, rapists, etc., etc., etc.

Dahl is actually completely fucked up in a way I tip my hat to and remove my literature panties for. But also I want to crawl up under a rock and die after reading his work.

Totally cheeky. Brash and brazen. Hilarious. Somehow charming and light-hearted despite the fact that he’s literally out there to offend everyone and anyone. Completely obscene. He is doubtlessly a bigot, an unfortunately talented one for that matter. I am *certain* that I would not have liked him if I had met him, but still, what a profoundly interesting writer -- a profoundly talented storyteller.

Anywho, if I may return to the novel at hand: My Uncle Oswald. An adult fiction work that was published in 1979 just 17 years after James and the Giant Peach (wink), 14 years after Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and right in between The Enormous Crocodile (wink again) and The Twits (wink x3).

Naturally, the story is about the shamelessly crude but charmingly visionary Uncle Oswald who we first met in Switch Bitch, a collection of short stories that hit bookshelves in 1974. In this title, however, Oswald is just 17-years old, and his life as the grandiose Oswald and the Giant Eggplant Emoji is merely beginning.

People. People. PEOPLE.

My Uncle Oswald, your Uncle Oswald, probably ALL of our Uncle Oswald “earned” his fortune in two ways:

1. By selling an ungodly (or godly?) potent aphrodisiac made from ground up fancy-ass beetles to both men and women

2. By collecting, preserving, and selling the semen of famous geniuses and artists to rich (and sometimes common) women who wanted children with extraordinary genes

...

...??

...?????

This is not politically correct, Charlie Bucket. No sir. There is no correctness to be found in a single sentence on a single page. Several instances, like when Oswald was completely unencumbered by rape -- and being the cause of rape and being the cause of who knows how many more rapes -- were difficult to suffer through, to say the least.

But the story was solid. The story. Was. Solid. It was also “solid.” And “Solid,” as well as “solid.” And inventive and original and disturbing. Blissfully unpredictable. THOUGH. I must say. Neither in My Uncle Oswald nor in Switch Bitch, Dahl doesn’t seem to understand that a big, steel sword does not mean you are a skilled knight.

In any case, it was sooo fun to read about Yasmin encountering all these brilliant men, especially since she was always elated about the task at hand. I nearly forgot about the *incredibly* detailed stories about the octopus, pickled sailor, and bull semen collection. She was so alluring and charismatic. Dahl develops his characters so thoroughly and wonderfully.

What a vile and vulgar storyteller. I am applauding while I sit here both vomiting and feeling personally attacked.

What a wonderful book and what a wonderful ending.

The Bechdel Test was not passed, however, and for that reason, Roald Dahl’s My Uncle Oswald does not get a golden ticket.