The Daily Sabbatical

Salvatore Scibona is an extraordinary writer.  His first book, The End, was nominated this year for The National Book award, and I’d say there is a very good chance he would have won it had the staggeringly good trilogy by Matthiesson not been allowed in the race.  What’s even more impressive, I suspect this author will only get better.  Scibona is a crafter of sentences in the DeLillo tradition–and in fact his dialogue, at times, feels like that of the Don.  His love of language comes through both in form and content, but he’s no pedantic formalist.  His craft is still the telling of tales, and he does it splendidly.

The End is an immigrant tale, of sorts, but like any good book it transcends the moldy stereotypes.  Scibona’s Italian-Americans reside in Cleveland, and though the city isn’t actually identified until later in the book, one is led to feel as if one spent the early part of the century in the neighborhood surrounding Elephant Creek.   As present as the city itself is, however, one reads this book for the people.  One character in particular, Constanza Marini, is so finely wrought that she becomes ones own neighbor.  Costanza, who is an old widow for most of the novel, is a whip-smart pragmatist who provides that axis around which the book’s events revolve.  And without spoiling, the book does have events–it has a sort of mystery at its core that had me combing back through earlier pages looking for clues.

There are not many debut novels that i plan to reread.  The End is one of them.  Before I do, I’m going to search out some of Scibona’s short stories–this is a writer to follow.

At this point I’ve read almost everything Vladimir Nabokov ever published.  There is simply no other writer like him.  When I finish reading his prose, I immediately feel like holing up in a garrett somewhere and crafting sentences that dance and narrative strategems that make a first reading useless.  If I actually get so far as to put pen to paper, I feel so dwarfed by the master that I quickly consign my pen to the dustbin.

Mary is Nabokov’s first novel, written when he was in Berlin in 1925, shortly after he met the inimitable Vera.  Nabokov didn’t translate Mary into English until 1970, and he apparently resisted tinkering too much with his young effort.  At least for those of us who want some reassurance that the man was human after all, this is fortunate.  While many of Nabokov’s trademarks can be seen budding in this short novel–his somewhat condescending humor, his intricate adjective play, his narrative gamesmanship–none of them are really in full blossom.  I’m reasonably sure I could spot it as a Nabokov a mile away, but had he not grown immensely after Mary, he would not hold the curlicued spot in our hearts he now holds.

The novel follows the young Ganin, a Russian exiled in Berlin–hmmm–who lives in a pension occupied by other idiosyncratic Russian emigres.   One of these is expecting the arrival of his wife, the titular Mary.  When he shows her picture to Ganin, our hero is shocked into reminiscences about his youthful romance with young Mary, his first physical love.  Soon a plan is in the hatching, to intercept Mary upon her arrival in Berlin and to resume Ganin’s lost romance.

Of course things aren’t so simple, but nothing substitutes Nabokov’s unravelling of his own knots.  Mary is ultimately not the recommended first stop on the Nabokov tour, but it is a joy for the completist.  Which I am fast becoming.  Next station, King, Queen, Knave!

I’m always tempted to break up my anally alphabetical ordering of books to create a special shelf of books that, to me, constitute lessons in writing.  These are not necessarily the best books–although they often are–but they are the books I feel I could read and reread in hopes of penetrating the secrets of their consruction.  They are the books that would signpost the way to the literary style I’d most like to emulate.    Body Snatcher by Juan Carlos Onetti would find a place on that shelf.

Onetti remains a bit of an unknown in the States, but one hopes that the surge of interest in Roberto Bolano will spur interest in some of his Latin American predecessors and contemporaries.  Onetti was born in Montevideo, but eventually fled to Spain after being persecuted by the Uruguayan dictatorship in 1974 for presenting a prize to a short-story considered pornographic by the powers that be.  His heroes number among mine–Knut Hamsun, William Faulkner, Celine–and his writing shows their influence.

Published originally in Spanish in 1964, Body Snatcher was translated into English by Alfred MacAdam in 1991.  It tells the story of the arrival of a brothel in a small town named Santa Maria–which is the setting of many of Onetti’s works.  The Body Snatcher of the title is Larson, a sort of pimp, who runs the brothel, but this story is not his alone.  It is also the story of Jorge, a boy in his teens who is having a strange but seductive relationship with the unhinged widow of his dead brother.  It is also the story of Father Bergner, who runs a complicated campaign against the moral deterioration of Santa Maria, and it is the story of Marcos, a gritty man of violence and indignation who keeps both sides guessing.  I say Body Snatcher is a story, but that’s only true in the sense that As I Lay Dying is a story about a burial.  Onetti’s style is the main attraction.  There are subtle tricks of narrative perspective and tormenting convolutions of language that are, to be honest, only poetic in retrospect.  It all fuses together, however, into something magical.

I love this book, and I hereby add Onetti to my list of heroes.  If the translators don’t get on it, I might have to learn more than get-to-the-bus Spanish.

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.

You heard it here first: More Than It Hurts You will be nominated for the National Book Award this year.  It reminds me of no book more than The Corrections, which despite the Franzen backlash is a masterpiece.   Strauss might not have attained the perfect touch Franzen achieved in that novel, but More Than It Hurts You shares its general profile and spirit, while also being an unpredictable page turner.

The story centers around a possible case of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy.  If you aren’t a Law and Order: SVU addict, then  you might not know that MSbP is a rare disorder in which a parent, usually a mother, intentionally induces an illness in her child.  Possible motivations differ–the mother might enjoy the attention she receives in a crisis, she might want to galvanize the family around the child’s sickness, or her motivations might not be evident at all.  In Strauss’ novel, the mother in question is Dori Goldin, who is accused of harming her son Zack.  Her accuser, Darlene Stokes, is a young, successful black pediatrician with a child of her own.  The novel is essentially a story of these two families, and the way their very different pasts play into their present turbulent conflict.

Dori and Josh Goldin are to all appearances an alpha couple, the face of a perfect family.  Dori is an ex-phlebotomist become full time mother, and Josh is an ad saleman who works his charm like a corporate Jedi.  Cracks only appear in the facade when their infant Zack “codes” when in the emergency room–for no obvious reason.  In comes Darleen Stokes who finds Dori’s behavior suspicious and Zack’s near fatality inexplicable.  Stokes is a second generation single mother who has, through the determination of her mother and her own intelligence and abition, become the head of pediatrics at a prominant hospital.  Her accusation against the Goldins leads Josh to employ a sharp, if not particularly scrupulous, lawyer…and so it begins: a legal battle, a media firestorm, and a personal trial for all involved.

If you’re thinking this won’t be a stress-free read, you’re right.  No one in the story is perfect, and in general their imperfections are subtle enough that we can relate to them.  And it’s no fun imagining oneself being swept up into the circus of slants and spins that surrounds these characters.  Nevertheless, the novel isn’t burdensome to read.  It pulls more like a thriller than a social novel, and it sparks thought as it’s doing so.  That’s a tough trick.

Strauss is not quite on the echelon of a Roth, but that this even merits saying is a compliment to his ability.  He still has a few pecadillos that can become annoying.  Clever little metaphors are a little too abundant, and there are elements of the plot–like Stokes’ father, the ex-con–that don’t seem to fully pull their weight.  Nevertheless, I’ll probably read everything this guy has written–Chang and Eng, and The Real McCoy–and I will look forward to watch his trajectory.  I predict it’s upward.

It’s both exciting and depressing to read an excellent debut novel by some twenty-one year old punk.  It is outright distressing, though, that someone so young should demonstrate such an insider’s acquaintance with the seamy world the book depicts.

On the cover of my edition, Irvine Welsh compares the book to Less than Zero, and that’s apt–perhaps if you splice it with Welsh’s own Trainspotting and the controversial movie Kids.  The novel is written from the perspective of a handful of kids in low-middle class Britain where the same old decisions and insecurities that have always plagued adolescence have to occur in a violent and drug infused sprawl.  Our hero is somewhat pathetic obsessive/compulsive Adam, who has an irresistable fancy–stoked at a distance–for the pill-popping hottie, Eve.  His attraction to Eve teases him out of his abusive home and into her chaotic world for which he is singularly unprepared.  Though she fakes it well, Eve, of course–being only fifteen–isn’t ready for it either.  In fact, if there is an underlying theme of the book, it might be that no one–including the snake Gaz–is ready for this garden.  (Oh yeah:  the “apples” are drugs.  Just to complete the symbolism.  In actuality, this symbolism is not overplayed.  In fact, densely, it was a while before I got it.)

Though Apples is a blast to read–not least because of Milward’s ability to drop into slang driven voices and disordered adolescent minds–it is pretty painful.  You’ve got overdoses, broken faces, rapes and infanticides, and the first-person narrative doesn’t allow any distance from any of it.  The narrative approach also doesn’t let the reader hate any of the characters–except perhaps the snake.  You can regret their decisions or lament their innocence, you can cringe at the way their naivete permits a flood of heartbreak and pain, but their sins are understandable for all that.  Despite its rough edges, the book brims with heart.

We’ll be hearing a lot more for Richard Milward, assuming he doesn’t live anything like the life of his characters.  He’s convinced me that a 21 year old can write a splendid novel with wisdom and perspective, and that’s no small feat.

I bought this book on the strength of the dustjacket blurbs.  Thom Jones, Dan Chaon, Julie Orringer, Kevin Brockmeier, Adam Johnson and Peter Orner all write as if this is the debut novel we’ve all been waiting for.  It also promised to be a genre bender of the sort that has increasingly gained in popularity (in no small part, I think, due to the encouragement of writers like Michael Chabon and Jonathan Lethem.)  A young cop with rich brat high-school friends patrols the cemetery garrison of San Francisco and finds himself waging a war against a band of dead criminals.  Ok, cool enough.  Brett Easton Ellis meets Raymond Chandler meets Stephen King.  Sounds great if author Doug Dorst can pull it off and all blurbs point to the fact that he does.

He doesn’t.  It’s not that Dorst is a poor writer.  He’s clearly talented, and he has the makings of some very good work here.  As it stands, however, the book seems like a patchwork of false starts and unfulfilled promises.  There are simply too many narrative strands here that don’t get fully woven into the tale and that set expectations that don’t get met.  The ghost story remains temptingly in the background, and never really gets, um, fleshed out.  Our hero, Mike Mercer, has problems in his relationships to just about everyone, and while this is really the central theme of the novel, there’s little sense that he is discovering anything interesting about himself or others in the process.  We know he is estranged from his father, for example, and the old man appears to be in the neighborhood, or so we have it from the testimony of Mercer’s friends, but nothing happens.  It completely drops, only to be alluded to in the unsatisfying wrap-up as one of many things which will be resolved by the good will and bonhomie that constitutes the novel’s ending.

Writing a genre crosser is dicey, because genre’s bring along expectations.  In crime novels, we want to get to the crime, and it can feel distracting if we are burdened with too much romance, and in horror stories (which this doesn’t pretend to be, really) we want the creeps, so character development can actually get in the way.  It’s like porn with a plot: yes, yes, we know there is a mystery on the estate, but let’s get back to the butler and the chambermaid!  Genre-blending can be done, but it’s damned difficult and Alive in Necropolis doesn’t hit it.

So, why all these blurbs?  After several pages I realized: I know Chaon and Jones have Iowa Writers’ Workshop ties.  What about Dorst?  Yep: from the workshop.  The same with Orringer, Brockmeier, and Peter Orner. So, five out of six of the book’s blurbs are from the workshop at Iowa!  C’mon, guys!  So, a word to the wise: when reading book blurbs, keep an eye out for home cooking.

If you read many book reviews or book blogs, you’ve no doubt been exposed to the hype surrounding Joseph O’Neil’s Booker-listed novel. If it’s not the most positively reviewed book of the year, it has to be close. Sadly, I cannot disagree with the consensus. Netherland may not win the Booker—indeed, my vote still goes to Sebastian Barry—but it will put O’Neil firmly among the list of top young writers.

Though O’Neil is a strange breed of European mutt—born in Ireland, raised in Holland, schooled in England—he has generated one of the best books about New York City that I have read in recent years. The story is narrated by Hans van den Broek, a Hollander who is living in Manhattan after establishing a career and a young family in England. To all appearances, van den Broek takes the stage to tell us about the mysterious death of Chuck Ramkissoon, an energetic and charismatic man hailing from Trinidad-Tobago. This somewhat traditional plot conceit, a sort of whodunit, provides a false backbone for the novel, however, and anyone expecting a story in the classic fashion will be disappointed.

The brilliance of Netherland comes in the way the narration departs from the traditional linear styles. Perhaps because he is adrift in a sort of depression caused by the one, two punch of September 11^th and his estrangement from his wife and son, Van den Broek is a very distractible narrator. He seems unable to keep his attention from being swept into the various eddies of his mind, shifting it across times and situations. The effect is not jarring—the segues are always smooth—but it could frustrate a reader determined to reach point G from point F without making stops at B, H, X, and A along the way. Such frustration would be unfortunate, however, since it is these stops that explode the novel into a multidimensionality that could not otherwise be attained. We get an intimate sense of Hans’ distress over his marriage, his sense of homelessness, the state of NYC in the years following the fall of the towers, and the way a game like cricket can provide the stitching that holds a life together when all else gives way.

Though van den Broek has a wandering mind, he has moments of clarity about his situation that are all the more striking for their contrast with his Hamlet-like paralysis.

…if I was indeed embracing an American lot, then I was doing so unprogrammatically, even unknowingly. Perhaps the relevant truth—and it’s one whose existence was apparent to my wife, and I’m sure to much of the world, long before it became apparent to me—is that we find ourselves in temporal currents and that unless you’re paying attention you’ll discover, often too late, that an undertow of weeks or of years has pulled you deep into trouble.

These moments of insight are so crystalline, that one wonders, at moments, how someone so perspicacious can seem so rudderless. That, though, is the paradox of an intelligent person’s depression.

If I still side with The Secret Scripture over Netherland for the Booker, it is only because the former is such a perfectly bound package of a novel that it cannot be overlooked. But perhaps in so favoring it, I am missing Netherland’s greatest accomplishment: that its rough edges are precisely what are appropriate for the psyche of its narrator.

At some point I learned to repeat to my teachers that Greek tragedy is cathartic. It probably would have been better to have us read something that actually was cathartic, but I seriously doubt Sophocles would have fit the bill for a bunch of fourteen year olds. Sophocles doesn’t do it for me today either, and it’s the rare piece of literature that does. But every once in a while I become so enthralled with a book that it threatens to become transformative; I emerge from the reading as if baptised. This was my e experience with Yu Hua’s To Live.
As To Live begins, we hear from a narrator telling us of a time he was traveling across China in search of popular folk songs. During this trip, he encounters an old man badgering his tired ox while plowing his fields. The rest of the book is essentially narrated by the old man, Fugui, as he recounts his harrowing life story.
Fugui’s tale begins at his youth as an undisciplined aristocrat, literally riding the backs of prostitutes through his village, and then through much harder times, most of which can be traced back to his disgraceful behavior. This is, however, not a simple morality tale, for it is not as if Fugui is ever really born again–though he learns from his past, he has the human habit of forever discovering new mistakes to make. In addition, his life’s tortuous path is intertwined with the massive changes taking place in twentieth century china:the civil war between the nationalists and the communists, the Chinese Land Reform Movement, The Great Leap Forward and finally the Cultural Revolution and its aftermath. So on the one hand you get an inspiring study of a character who is committed to life despite its difficulties, and a personal reflection of the impact of national level events filtered down to the “simple” lives of Chinese peasants.
Though the book was banned in China on its release in 1993, it has been named one of the ten most influential Chinese books of its decade, and was the source for a movie by the same name. (I haven’t seen the movie, but I certainly will.) Hua is one of China’s pre-eminent authors, and I plan to read every word the man writes. He’s that good.