Imagine if a jazz record turned into a book, lit a cigarette, and started trauma-dumping at 3am. That’s But Beautiful. 
It’s like Dyer said, “Yeah, I’m gonna write about jazz legends,” but then he made it 
artsy, chaotic, and kinda devastating instead.
This isn’t your grandpa’s music history. It’s part fever dream, part existential crisis, and full-on poetic AF. You’re vibing through smoky bars, watching genius self-destruct in slow motion, and wondering why the hell it’s hitting you so hard. Like bro, I just came for the jazz, not to re-evaluate my soul. 
Basically: it’s messy, it’s gorgeous, it hurts in the best way. 10/10 for sad, sexy suffering and lyrical prose that punches you in the face. 
Just finished But Beautiful by Geoff Dyer and WTF DID I JUST EXPERIENCE 
This book??? It’s like someone whispered poetry into a saxophone and then emotionally wrecked me. Not a plot girly? Doesn’t matter. Dyer said, “We’re here for vibes and vibes only.” And the vibes are SAD, SMOKY, and STUNNING.
I went in thinking it was about jazz musicians and came out emotionally disheveled, possibly a little in love with every tragic figure, and deeply unsure if I even like jazz or if I just like suffering beautifully now. 
Anyway, if you like books that make you feel like you’re spiraling in a cool, cinematic way… read this. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.
5/5 for the aesthetic alone
Bonus points for making me want to cry in a dimly lit bar
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SPOILERS for But Beautiful by Geoff Dyer — proceed with caution
This is not a fan post. This is an I’m conflicted and still processing post. 
Just finished But Beautiful and… I have thoughts. Like, yeah, parts of this book are gorgeously written, but other parts had me staring into space like, did I just hallucinate that chapter? 
First off, Dyer’s vibes over facts approach is bold. And sometimes it works — especially with Lester Young and Thelonious Monk. Those chapters felt haunting, intimate, like I was living inside their decline. There were sentences I read twice just to soak in how beautiful they were.
BUT… the fictionalization of real people’s suffering? Yeah, that got dicey for me. Dyer is literally putting thoughts and feelings into the minds of real, very dead men — many of whom were exploited, misunderstood, or mentally unwell — and it occasionally felt romanticized or straight-up invasive. 
Also: the pacing? All over the place. Some chapters felt sharp and emotionally exacting, others dragged or blurred into each other. By the time we got to Chet Baker, I was like, okay, another tortured genius spiraling out. Cool. Got it. 
And don’t even get me started on how female figures were either completely absent or reduced to vague background characters in male pain. Like yeah, I know this is a book about jazz legends, but the lack of any counterbalance or context made it feel like a sad boy jazz montage after a while.
That said — the Mingus chapter? Brilliant. Uncomfortable in the best way. Chaotic, unpredictable, and actually felt like a conversation about race, power, and control. I wish the whole book had that kind of self-awareness.
So yeah. Mixed feelings. But Beautiful is an ambitious, deeply poetic, sometimes brilliant book… but also kind of self-indulgent and emotionally manipulative. And I don’t fully trust it.
Final thoughts: 3.5/5. Loved the writing, side-eyed the ethics, and lowkey wanted to fight the author more than once.
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