I voted yesterday, and despite the long line, I was in and out in half an hour. FYI, it seems you can vote at any early voting location within your county, just bring your driver’s license or a government issued ID. You can even, it seems, bring a utility bill to verify your id. The machines are computerized, but easy to understand and not obviously messed up. GO VOTE!
I have two episodes before I am done with The Wire, and I am sick. I already want more. It might be the best TV show ever made, and though I’m sure I’ll rewatch it from start to finish, it just won’t be the same. Still, I can take some heart: the writers for The Wire are out there writing novels, and if Lush Life by Richard Price is any indication, they are almost as good. As Dennis Lehane says on the dust jacket, Price is one of the best writers of dialogue this country has. (Actually, Lehane says the best we have ever had.) His writing feels real in a way that even the best writing doesn’t. His characters speak in sentence fragments, with bad grammar, and they often use the wrong words. But the flow is undeniable, and though I’m just a white boy who has led a somewhat sheltered existence, during the hours I’m reading Lush Life I feel like I’ve descended into the eddies of Manhatten as they rush from the housing projects to the happy hours. The book is around 400 pages and I read it in less than a day. Granted, I was sick in bed, but it was that riveting. Price is not writing the sort of high literature that has us looking to Pynchon, McCarthy, DeLillo or Roth, but I don’t think he wants to be. I don’t want him to be either. This is simply more fun. It might not stay with me in the same way, but that’s ok. I’ll just read it again.
Suite Francaise is worth reading if for no other reason than for the unique perspective it has on the second world war and the French occupation in particular. The harrowing story of its author gilds the work with both authenticity and poignance. Irene Nemirovsky was a Jewish, Russian born novelist who achieved great success with novels such as David Golder, which became a play and a movie. She lived in Paris during the French Occupation, and decided to write a five volume work about what she was seeing. Before she finished, however, she was sent to Auschwitz where she died in August of 1942. The manuscript of the novel was kept by her daughter Denise who, believing it was simply a journal, didn’t read it until 1990 when she was about to donate it to a Frech archive. It was finally published in 2004 where it became a bestselling winner of the Prix Renaudot. The story of the novel has an undeniable Anne Frankish appeal, but unlike the Diary this book is written by an extremely talented, deeply reflective author with a mature understanding of human weakness. Suite Francais is not written as a journal, but as a work of fiction in the vein of, perhaps, Flaubert. It feels as though it could have been written when it was published, except for the fact that one can sense that its author had no idea how all of it would turn out. There is no anticipation of an eventual liberation, no sense that France would come out of the war an autonomous nation, and no expectation that Germany would eventually lose the war. It is not a sentimental, mournful document, however. It is, in fact, a rather biting depiction of the hypocrisy and the frank materialism of a group of French citizens who would rather just be left alone. The outrage we see is like that of a Orange County wife who discovers there are no more seats in first class, not the sadness and anger of a French patriot in danger of losing his country. Despite the despicable behavior of many of the characters in this novel, Nemirovsky doesn’t just make them into objects of scorn. She forces the reader to ask himself: Would I be any better? What after all can one man do when his nation is falling? Suite Francais is not without its flaws. Occasionally its characters become archetypes ala Dickens, but that seems to be the danger in a social novel. In general, this is an elegantly written novel catches history in a candid moment and asks all the right questions.
Cecil Franks; an Isle of Wight librarian was freed yesterday by a team of skilled language experts following a harrowing ten-hour ordeal trapped in a linguistic dichotomy in the men’s toilets.
Between illness, an emergency trip to Nashville, and a tenure case, I’ve gotten completely backed up on work. I’ll hopefully have my head above water soon.
