Archive for the ‘Book Reviews’ Category

“Custer” by Larry McMurtry

Saturday, November 17th, 2012

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Larry McMurtry’s take on CUSTER, according to a growing consensus of reviewers on Amazon, is a pathetic effort. Some of these reviewers are historians of professional or amateur status and others are not. But all of them, it seems to me, come across as serious readers who care about the truth and care about history done right. They’re offended by the book’s countless flaws, factual errors, book production missteps, and quality-control oversights.

I join them in saying this is a sadly misbegotten thing.

I’m not a historian, amateur or otherwise, just a general reader. Before opening CUSTER I knew next to nothing about the General, other than how easily come the laughs whenever his name is invoked when characterizing someone else’s abject failure. Even if you don’t know the date by heart as do Custer-maniacs — it was June 25, 1876, by the way — everyone knows the outcome of the Battle of the Little Big Horn. So to those of you in a similar position, novices who might be attracted to the book because it looks like it might be a good way to enter Custer’s world, I say this:

Stay away.

As a biographer, McMurty fails the new reader. His presentation is disjointed. Without any helpful introduction, McMurtry drops in names and places and events that aficionados of Custer and the Battle of the Little Bighorn will recognize but that leave the rest of us neophytes without a clue. He repeatedly veers off into tangents that have little or nothing to do with the subject at hand. The chapters are so short that narrative momentum is impossible.

Maybe you’re like me, expecting McMurty would take his talents as a storyteller and his skills as a novelist (no dispute that in his fiction he’s crafted fully-rounded characters you swear are real people) and use those talents and skills to re-imagine Custer for readers of today. Well, there too you’ll be disappointed. For me the final bitter pill was this: when I finished the book I had no strong sense of what it would have been like to meet Custer in person and know the man.

I don’t want to beat a dead horse, but aside from the major criticisms of knowledgeable reviewers, there’s yet one more problem to mention. In a book that carries a $35 list price, you will be shocked — and as a reader you will feel insulted — by how many typos mar McMurtry’s text as it now lies on the pages of this book. Was nobody at Simon & Schuster available to proofread it? On the more serious matters of factual inaccuracies in McMurtry’s text and in the captions accompanying the otherwise interesting illustrations (on the latter point, see the list of errors, here), why didn’t the editor listen to the pre-release readers who submitted comments and corrections? Why was this rushed into release in this sorry state?

For sure there’s a story to be told someday about how McMurtry, a writer with a long and distinguished career, got roped into this terrible adventure. If the unfocused, error-riddled text is from his hand and if it represents his final polished draft, then this truly must be viewed as a misconceived endeavor.

If, despite all the guff we unpaid reviewers are dishing out, you remain interested in adding CUSTER to your library or giving it as a gift, please consider waiting a bit. Mark my words: not long after the holidays there will be stacks of CUSTERs on the remainder table at your nearest Barnes & Noble, radically marked down with a “must-sell-or-we-send-it-to-the-pulp-mill” low price.

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One more thing that got my goat is how Amazon teamed with the Simon & Schuster publicity shop to tout a product using misleading means.

A lot of people will decide whether to buy CUSTER based on information found on the book’s product page on Amazon. Potential purchasers may check out a few of the customer reviews and might also scan the “Editorial Reviews” section for insights. That section, just above the “Product Details” area, is where Amazon places comments on the book derived main stream media outlets — newspapers and magazines. This material is fed to Amazon from the publisher. In the case of CUSTER, this means Amazon is featuring blurbs plucked by Simon & Schuster from ten positive reviews of the book. Or at least you’re led to believe they’re reviews of CUSTER. And so someone who absorbs that material, together with the customer reviews, may wind up scratching their head in wonder: How could those smart folks at The Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, Chicago Tribune and The Washington Post say such nice things about CUSTER, when most of the common readers who posted detailed reviews are so negative? The answer is simple:

None of those positive-sounding quotations relate to CUSTER.

If you do a Google search you’ll discover the quotation from the Wall Street Journal actually comes from a review of McMurtry’s 2010 book entitled “Hollywood”. The statement from The New Yorker was previously attached to the author’s “The Berrybender Narratives”. The sentence from the Chicago Tribune was pulled from a 2002 review of “Sin Killer” (the first of the “Berrybender Narratives”). The words from the Washington Post were also previously attached to “The Berrybender Narratives”. Of you’re wondering about that second dry quotation from the Wall Street Journal — well, it appeared in a recent interview piece with the author; in no way should it be taken as the Journal expressing a positive judgment on CUSTER.

The remaining excerpts in the “Editorial Reviews” section do in fact come from recently-published reviews of McMurtry’s new book. Yet there, too, skepticism is in order.

For example, the 20 upbeat words carefully lifted from Kirkus Reviews are, in truth, more than overshadowed by the critical remarks found elsewhere in the complete review (available online here), such as this less-than-enthusiastic summary: “McMurtry’s observations are not especially interesting […] and some wander off topic.” The same goes for the excerpt from a review in Booklist, which, when read in its entirely, also comes across as damning McMurtry with faint praise. Booklist labels the book as “neither a comprehensive nor a conventional biography of Custer. Instead, McMurtry offers a series of vignettes and musings … McMurtry often paints an unflattering and probably unfair portrait of Custer.” Granted, the Booklist reviewer does say many of the author’s “tidbits” are “interesting.”

As for the USA Today’s review of CUSTER that Amazon cites, upon reading the complete review I found it contains some not entirely reassuring words of advice to the potential reader; words that, for some reason, are missing from Amazon:

“You will enjoy the book more than Custer enjoyed the battle.”

I kid you not.

(As Jack Paar used to say.)

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“Back to Blood” by Tom Wolfe: Exclamation! Points! Every! Where!

Sunday, October 14th, 2012

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The other day I began to read Tom Wolfe’s new novel, Back to Blood. Things were going fine until page 3. That’s where I came upon a physical description of a woman named Mac, wife of the editor of a Miami newspaper. Mac, the overwrought Wolfe urgently wants the reader to understand, is stunning. And so we read words, words, and more words that establish the proposition that Mac is stunning. Then, redundantly, Wolfe decides to tells us in no uncertain terms that Mac is . . . “stunning.” Finally, since Wolfe is not a man to let go of the obvious, he appends to the word “stunning” the filigree of an exclamation point:

“Stunning!”

Yes, a wee thing, this punctuation mark … (!)  Like the falling of a small drop of rain.

But, dear reader, more drops fall. As when the swollen South Fork Dam collapsed, what follows is a veritable Johnstown flood of exclamation marks clotting the prose. Exclamation marks are pinned, wantonly, on utterances, thoughts, descriptions, and proper names — all without sense or grace.

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How bad does this get?

Below, culled from pages 3 to 35 of Back to Blood, is every instance in which Wolfe felt an exclamation point was, somehow, appropriate. This list records the words or the word phrases that immediately precede the mark. In some instances, where it’s needed to convey the subject Wolfe wants emphatically to express, I’ve included the whole sentence.

Enjoy.

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Stunning!

Absolutely gorgeous, this big girl of his!

Now!

This was the chance!

This was the crack in the wall of words he was waiting for!

An opening!

Never mind!

“Attractive” barely began to describe what he felt!

Such nice tender long legs the two girls had!

Perfect little cupcake bottoms … for him!

And that was obviously what they wanted!

Tighty-whiteys!

Oh, ineffable dirty girls!

Oh, ineffable Latin dirty girls!

An ordinary conversational voice!

The spell was broken!

Perfect little cupcakes!

Their short short-shorts!

Short short short-shorts!

Sex!

Sex!

Sex!

Sex!

Up on golden Lucite thrones!

Well, you are!

Good subject!

Everybody!

Get up!

Let’s go!

On the sand!

Now, that was an accomplishment!

FIDEL, SI!

PATRIOTISM, NO!

Even if I wanted him to!

Jesus Christ, those lights are bright!

Brake light on the back window!

A big black thing — huge!

Godalmighty! — it was a white Ferrari 403!

A Ferrari 403!

That’s a $275,000 car!

Why, that bitch!

That brazen little bitch!

LYING AND SAYING YOU DIDN’T!

Look at her!

You stupid bitch!

DON’T YOU DARE TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!

A NASTY LITTLE MONKEY IS WHAT YOU ARE!

Both of you! Stop!

Go to hell, bitch!

Why can’t they just stop!

SPEAK ENGLISH, YOU PATHETIC IDIOT!

SPEAK ENGLISH!

Rude bitch!

But Please, God!

God knows they’ve got the money!

Oh, yes!

There!

Everybody … all of them … it’s back to blood!

A leaning pool!

Blond hair! — and blue eyes!

The blond ones! — with blue eyes!

As far as SMACK that goes!

Pumping iron!

That’ll do the trick!

Dense!

Nnnnnnooooooooooooo!!!

Gym!

dense!

Magdalena!

That day!

Nes-ter!

Wait a minute!

The “eyes”!

So dismissive!

Such a rebuke!

Impudent and a half!

Straight out!

The anger he felt!

If only he had added a “Sarge”!

He’s still a sergeant!

Blown out of the water!

Quick!

Throw in a Sarge right now!

Sarge and Sarge!

Jesus Christ!

He dares say!

Most revered figure in Cuban history!

The filth right in the face!

And this is not Marti’s birthday!

Even with that!

Canadian!

Holy shit!

Up there!

Canadians!

It would take a genius to catch on!

But get hold of yourself!

Expelled from the force!

Canned!

Kicked out!

Biscayne Bay!

He’d be finished!

Magdalena, too!

Magdalena!

Eighty-fucking-two feet!

The man on the mast!

Up on top of the forward mast!

He’s up as high as the tontos on the bridge!

He did it!

He did it!

With the fluid power of a tiger he did it!

Slid it!

Slid a sliding door open!

Without fucking up!

Christ it was hot out there on the deck!

Scorching!

Enervating!

Miami summer sun!

Cries!

Exhortations!

Imprecations!

Ululations!

Supplications!

Boos!

Biscayne Bay!

A regular rubber room, this deck was!

Girls — all but stark naked!

Wild blond hair!

Wisps of thong bikini bottoms that didn’t even cover the mons pubis!

Almighty God, I beseech thee, don’t let me … fuck up!

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That prayer reaches the reader at page 35.

It’s hard for me to express, in my own words, the feeling that wells up inside me when I realize another 669 pages stand between me and the final exclamation on the novel’s final page.

So, to express the moment, let me borrow an exclamation from Mr. Tom . . . and at the same time pay homage to Mr. Bill.

Let me shout out my feelings thus:

Ohhhh Nnnnnnooooooooooooo!!!


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NOTES

1.  If my audit of pages 3-35 missed some exclamation marks, please forgive me. Or better still, thank me.

2.  [Spoiler Alert] The novel’s final exclamation, intended to send the reader off with a grin: “That’s … so … wonderful!

3.  A tip of the hat to James Wood whose dissection of Back to Blood in this week’s The New Yorker includes a couple of remarks about Wolfe’s overuse of exclamation marks. Wood refers to them as “the blurting, Tourette’s-like exclamations” and notes how Wolfe’s excitability works counter to the individualization of his characters: “In the regime of the enforced exclamation mark, everyone is equal.”

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A rare sighting at The New Yorker

Sunday, September 30th, 2012

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A magazine I cherish is The New Yorker.

Wait, let me rephrase that: The New Yorker is a magazine I read each and every week cherishly.

Better put, no?

The New Yorker has been dubbed “the most meticulously edited magazine in the world.” Articles, paragraphs, sentences, words — all are filtered clean by a cadre of fact-checkers, copy-editors and proof-readers. One of its editors recently boasted:  at The New Yorker “every quote, every detail, every attribution, every everything is checked for accuracy.”

So don’t expect to find the word cherishly in its pages.

Is it any wonder that for many readers the hunt for typos in The New Yorker has become something of a sport, nay, obsession? Examples of these hunters — including a few proudly displaying their trophies — can be found here (“the other night I found a typo in The New Yorker“), here (“stunned to find a typo”), here (“this week’s New Yorker has a shockingly obvious misspelling/typo”), here (“I have discovered typos in The New Yorker), here (“there are now typos in The New Yorker“), here (a tweet about a Saturday night well spent “looking for typos in The New Yorker”) and here (“…extra credit for catching typos in The New Yorker“).

Can I jump in here?

Today, while reading Ian Parker’s profile of J.K. Rowling featured in the October 1, 2012 issue of the magazine, I came across this passage on page 62:

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The same typo — Mr. Mosley’s surname erroneously offered up first as “Mosely” — appears in the online edition:

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I did a Google search to see whether anyone else had bagged this catch and then bragged about it online before me. No results. My arms shot up in triumph! (Sorry, no photo).

Essayist Joseph Epstein, a seasoned questioner and answerer, had this to say on the subject of spotting typos:

“Why do people take such pleasure in discovering typographical errors—typos, in the trade term—especially in putatively august publications? I confess I do. Is there a touch of Schadenfreude in it? Not so much “see how the mighty have fallen” as “see how sloppy, sadly incompetent, bereft of standards they have become.” Catching a typo heightens the reading experience, making a reader feel he is perhaps just a touch superior to the author, his or her editors, and, it does not go too far to say, the culture of our day.”

Just so: I savor my finding of this error with cherish.

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“Store of the Worlds” by Robert Sheckley

Friday, May 18th, 2012

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The legion of Robert Sheckley fans is usually a quiet and unassuming bunch. Yet sometimes they stir. The occasion of a new publication, or even the repackaging of old material, may spur hidden aficionados to step out of the shadows and publicly declare their loyalty.

One such declarant is Michael Dirda, Pulitzer Prize winning book critic for the Washington Post, whose review of STORE OF THE WORLDS, a newly-gather collection of 26 short stories from the 1950s and 1960, appeared this week under the headline, “A Master of Satirical Fiction.”

If you’ve never read anything by Sheckley and wonder if he’s worth a try, Dirda provides some helpful comparables: Kurt Vonnegut’s books, the sardonic comeuppance stories of John Collier and Roald Dahl, Edward Gore’s little albums, and reruns of “The Twilight Zone.”

To that affinity list I’d add this advice: If you remember fondly the mind-stretching experience of your college anthropology class, and/or if your ideal of humor is all sorts of Lord-what-fools-these-mortals-be satire, then this guy’s for you, and STORE OF THE WORLDS is a good point of entry.

One caveat. Don’t be misled by the fact this volume appears under the imprint of New York Review Books, whose reputation rests on resurrecting out of print literary gems. Sheckley is not a “literary” writer, at least not as that term is generally understood. Your reward as a reader is not the quality of his prose. Your reward will be to enjoy the playfulness of a fertile mind — a mind delivering ideas sometimes antic, mostly sardonic.

There’s one other collection of the author’s stories currently in print that you should consider as an alternative: The Masque Of Manana. It’s a hardback and contains 41 stories, 15 more than the paperback STORE OF THE WORLDS. Among the stories found in both books are the four Dirda specifically calls out in his review. Another fan-favorite, “Watchbird,” a cautionary tale that presaged by half a century today’s controversy over domestic use of drones, is found in STORE but not in MASQUE. One of Dirda’s favorites is mine also: “Shape,” aka, “Keep Your Shape,” an aliens-visiting-earth story in which Sheckley maintains tension so well that you’re simply overwhelmed by its lovely dénouement.

I was introduced to the world of Robert Sheckley by a friend way back in graduate school, and, following a pattern not unknown to inveterate readers, gobbled up the author’s work — some novels but mostly the collections of tasty short stories — like a kid in a candy store. Those days you could easily find Sheckley in bookstores specializing in science fiction/fantasy. Every city had one. (But today?) Another source: the disreputable dark dusty corners of used bookstores where ratty SF paperbacks were kept.

Thank you, NYRB, for allowing readers like me to revisit these stored pleasures.

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A shorter version of this review is posted on Amazon, here.

“The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard”

Sunday, April 1st, 2012

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A Special Publication of the Library of America, this is a generous volume. It contains a three-page preface by the book’s editor Ron Padgett (a poet whose friendship with the author dates back to their high school days in Tulsa, Oklahoma); a ten-page Introduction by novelist Paul Auster; followed by over 500 pages of writings interspersed with the author’s own drawings and cartoons. Rounding out the book are pages of helpful editorial content: a Chronology; a Note on the Texts; and a Glossary of Names. The names belong to fellow artists, writers, dancers, musicians and associates mentioned by the shy-but-gregarious, serious-but-gossipy, frivolous-but-solemn, Joe Brainard.

The volume leads off with I REMEMBER, the autobiographical book Edmund White once labelled “a completely original book” and Paul Auster calls “a modest little gem.” There is an undeniable charm and relentless spell to it. Baby Boomer readers especially will be nodding their heads non-stop in recognition:

“I remember putting on sun tan oil and having the sun go away.”

“I remember catching lightning bugs and putting them in a jar with holes in the lid and then letting them out the next day”

“I remember Christmas cards coming from people my parents forgot to send Christmas cards to.”

“I remember red rubber coin purses that opened like a pair of lips, with a squeeze.”

“I remember wax paper.”

Over the years the simple template of I REMEMBER has influenced thousands of students in American creative writing classes, jump-starting imagination. Foreign writers too have followed its trail. One is Édouard Levé, whose Autoportrait is a pour of thousands of self-contained, self-referential declarative sentences — chips off the Brainard block.

And yet I REMEMBER fills only the first quarter (pages 3-134) of this Collected Writings volume. The bulk of the book falls into the category of Miscellany. To get a sense of the scope of these nearly 100 pieces, see the book’s Table of Contents on the Library of America site, here. Truth to tell, these pieces, which cover the hunt for love to the hunt for cigarettes and everything in between, include many misses among the hits. Take for example the illustrated piece on page 391 entitled “Matches.” It reads in its entirety: “If I strike say 60 matches a day (and I do) in a year’s time that would be — let me see — that would be — I hate math.” But the prevailing tone is a winning youthful energy, casual, humorous, miniaturistic. In his 1971 “Bolinas Journal” (reprinted at pages 285-333), he revealed his credo as simply “trying to be honest.”

Without doubt this book will appeal to Brainard “completists” — readers so taken by the delights of “I Remember” that from this intimately personal raconteur, from this easy sharer of confidences, they demand to hear more, more, and more.

The critic Michael Dirda recently observed that while THE COLLECTED WRITINGS “may not be a fully canonical Library of America title,” it is still “a superbly engaging bedside book.”  I agree. After the opening section devoted to the minimalist yet somehow magisterial “I Remember,” this becomes a book to be dipped into at leisure.

A note to readers who care about books as objects, especially the matter of their binding: Unlike volumes in the main Library of America series which are Smyth sewn (allowing you to open the book wide and bend back the covers without “breaking” or otherwise harming the binding), THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF JOE BRAINARD is a “Special Publication” that features a different design and production. The trim size is larger (good), but notch binding is used here, a disappointment as it renders the book less elegant than regular LOA volumes.

I see I’ve used a lot of numbers in this review. A final one is 52. That is the age of this still-young author at the time of his death in 1994. The coldness of numbers masks the warm effect of THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF JOE BRAINARD. In its pages you meet a big-hearted guy.

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[A version of this review appears on Amazon, here.]

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04-07-2012: This morning I came across an adoring review by Alberto Mobilio in the April/May 2012 online issue of Bookforum, here. Mobilio argues, convincingly, that “I Remember” is best read as an incantatory poem, one that epitomizes “that peculiarly American aspiration to self-mythologize in the face of an otherwise relentlessly quotidian world.”

“The Sickness” by Alberto Barrera Tyszka

Friday, March 9th, 2012

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A novel searing in emotional power that will be felt especially by readers who have lost a parent to a difficult illness, THE SICKNESS qualifies as a necessary book. It is the most accomplished piece of literature I’ve read recently, and unquestionably the most moving.

Alberto Barrera Tyszka’s formidable achievement starts with a simple formal structure — two intertwining storylines that play out over the course of a month or so, involving a handful of people living in contemporary Caracas, Venezuela. The primary focus is on Dr. Andres Miranda and his relationship with his sixty-nine-year-old father. In the opening pages the son learns his father has an aggressive form of cancer that will kill him in only a few weeks’ time. (Their reticent love may remind you of the father-son relationship in Per Petterson’s Out Stealing Horses: A Novel). A secondary story traces the emotional entanglement of the doctor’s secretary with a hypochondriac patient, charted through a fevered exchange of email messages.

I’m hoping THE SICKNESS receives the attention of careful critical reviews in places that allow for expansive analysis. So finely packed with incident and insight is this novel, so expertly orchestrated are its emotional revelations, and so sure-footed is the author’s blending of erudition and raw truths, that you will be caught in its influence long after reading its final pages. (The American novelist Chris Adrian, who supplies a short Introduction, confesses he was at first afraid to open the book with its wrenching report of terminal illness; then, having read it, he found himself eager to read it again.) There is so much to talk about! This novel is an ideal selection for a book club discussion.

Among Tyszka’s wonderful touches are his aphoristic observations, nonchalantly released into the flow of the narrative. These are usually serious and relate to the medical world, though not always: “Blood is a terrible gossip.” “Sickness is a form of disloyalty, an unacceptable infidelity.” “Why do we find it so hard to accept that life is pure chance?” In old age “there are no more deadlines, there is only the present.” “There are some people who only read in waiting rooms.” “Adolescence is the most unclassifiable of joys.” “Reality is always different when you’re taking a shower.”

And consider this Zen-like statement:

“Tears are very unliterary: they have no form.”

Throughout the novel the generous Tyszka also pays homage to the thoughts of others who’ve traveled the same terrain of illness, pain and death. Among them are Chekhov; Celine; Robert Burton, who wrote “The Anatomy of Melancholy” (1621); Susan Sontag, who observed there are two kingdoms, sickness and health; William Carlos Williams, who wrote that the doctor “must watch the patient’s mind as it watches him, distrusting him”; and Michel Foucault, who said that, “viewed from the experience of death, illness can be seen as a function of life.”

The book asks — and answers — the final question: What is the best way to say goodbye to life?

Other reviewers who are better qualified to judge the translation have praised Margaret Jull Costa.

In my photo, above, the U.K. edition (hardback) is on left, U.S. edition (paperback) on right. Depicting what appears to be a father and son at the prow of a ferry boat is appropriate as it directly relates to two scenes in the novel. The photo of a pier extending into the sea with a lone figure at its apex is an example of poetic license.

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“Varamo” by César Aira

Tuesday, February 21st, 2012

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There is a scene in VARAMO in which the protagonist, whose name supplies the novel’s title, finds himself in a café seated at a table occupied by three book publishers. They’re a cynical bunch. One of them encourages the inexperienced Varamo to try his hand at writing:

“In barbaric lands like the Americas, writers produce their best work before learning the craft, and nine times out of ten, their first book was their strongest, as well as being, in general, the only one they wrote.”

The prescription Varamo receives from his tablemates is this: First, write down some story “notes.” Then, “write out the notes one after another with some commentary in between. Try not to tidy them up too much; immediacy is the key to a good style.”

Only a handful of César Aira’s fifty-plus novels have been translated into English, which means it is impossible for non-Spanish readers to identify his best work. Yet from the pattern of the available work it’s beginning to look like Aira, despite his fecundity and his omnivorous instincts, is following the advice of the publisher in the café: This mad creator writes only one novel — and VARAMO is such a one.

The book, set in the Panamanian city of Colón in the year 1923, moves through a single evening and night experienced by a timid and lovelorn 50-year-old Panamanian civil servant. As is his common practice, Aira’s “notes” are strung into a somewhat disjointed but ever-forward-moving “chain of events.”

Varamo leaves work after receiving his salary in the unprecedented form of two counterfeit 100 peso notes. In a state of anxiety he returns home to care for his paranoid mother. He works on a taxidermy project. Back on the street, on route to his favorite café he watches an automobile competition known as a “regularity race.” He stumbles upon a conspiracy to overthrow the provincial government. He reacquaints himself with a romantic interest. Reaching the café, he’s given tips about the writer’s trade. When midnight strikes he wanders through the deserted town square and comes face to face with a transformative vision. It is an epiphany both “interesting and poetic: a `writerly’ experience; for him, everything was `writerly’ now.” He goes home to write a long and soon to be renowned poem.

These narrative “notes” are interrupted periodically by Aira’s trademark asides, discursions that sometimes reach the level of mini-essays. They engage a broad range of disciplines including economics, political science, sociology, psychology, philosophy (especially the mystery of time), and postmodern literary strategies. As always, Aira is fascinated with cycles, reversals, switchbacks, dichotomies (tropical exuberance vs. impeccable formality; abstract vs. concrete; the imaginary vs. the real). Paradoxes and oxymorons abound: “transparent labyrinths”; “he had continued to move within his paralysis”; he was “nostalgic for the present.”

The unsuspecting poet Varamo and (I suspect) Aira both enjoy the freedom to be inconsistent. Early on Varamo and Aira observe, “Light was what made the world work,” while later they declare, “Money is what ultimately moves the world.” Aira has a special disdain for bureaucrats: “Like nearly all public servants, [Varamo] didn’t do anything special to earn his salary.” Aira’s mixed bag aesthetic allows the author to inch toward sentimentality, albeit formally expressed: “The most awkward aspect of individuality was being left out of the shared understandings that create social bonds.”

The text of VARAMO, smoothly translated by the veteran Chris Andrews, occupies a mere 124 pages and is not divided into parts or chapters — all the better to maintain a forward momentum that Aira so values. On the final page Aira indicates the date of the book’s completion: 15th of December 1999. Like Varamo, the author was 50 years old.

When designing VARAMO, the publishers corrected a problem some readers (I among them) encountered with “The Seamstress and the Wind,” whose text is set in a very small font size. In VARAMO the reader is well served.

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A version of this review is posted on Amazon, here.

“The Break” by Pietro Grossi

Friday, January 20th, 2012

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THE BREAK, a novel originally published in Italian (“L’Acchito,” 2007), is the second book by Pietro Grossi to be translated into English and made available in the United States. It follows the release of a collection of three novellas, FISTS (“Pugni,” 2006), from the same publisher, Pushkin Press, in an equally handsome paperback edition.

FISTS impressed me mightily (see review here). Its high point is the opening story which traces the coming of age of a young amateur fighter. The arc of that simple tale is reenacted on a larger canvas in THE BREAK. A stone-layer named Dino, still in his twenties and leading an uneventful life in the rural town of his forebears, suddenly must deal with two unsettling developments: his wife is pregnant and his old job disappears. He seizes on the idea of perfecting his talents at billiards (the form of the sport featured here is known as Italian billiards or Italian five-pins). He embarks on contests that will lead to a further maturity.

This is a beautifully realized novel in which Grossi fulfills the promise of his initial work.

Laying down a single word — craftsmanship — is the best way I can think of to describe the source of strength found in THE BREAK. It’s not a coincidence that Grossi spent two years of his apprenticeship period studying at the Holden School (La Scuola Holden) in Torino, Italy. The curriculum at that institution emphasizes mastery of narrative — storytelling in all of its guises, not just in the short story and novel, but also in the realms of radio, theater, film and web-based content.

An aside: profiles of Grossi often mention, misleadingly I believe, that he is a follower of the American writer J.D. Salinger. I find little or no evidence of Grossi imitating the American. The linking of the two writers may be nothing more than a misunderstanding (or misrepresentation) of the fact that the founders of the Holden School named it (yes) after Holden Caulfield, the unforgettable narrator of “The Catcher in the Rye”.

No one can deny the meticulous quality of Grossi’s writing. From the very first page of THE BREAK, the reader will notice the clean, fine construction of sentences and paragraphs, quickly-limned characters, and deft scene-setting, all of this well captured in Howard Curtis’ translation. Here is Dino, out on the street, sensing winter’s approach:

“The days were already drawing in. It was the beginning of that time of year when, as evening fell, people seemed to be wandering through a darkened theater.”

Grossi conveys the uncertainties Dino experiences via subtle phrases (usually disguised as ordinary descriptions) carefully positioned, piece by piece: “Dino couldn’t quite explain it”; “what the questions were he didn’t even know himself”; “maybe people had lost the habit”; “for some reason . . .”. There is a reiterated motif of how two persons’ physical closeness to each other discloses emotional information. One instance is the description of Dino as he and his wife Sofia occupy two corners of their tiny kitchen: “It had always made him feel good, being close to each other like this but slightly distant, and not talking.”

Grossi seems to know instinctively where to guide the reader and how best to do it. For example, only a few pages into the book Sofia reveals she is pregnant. The homey atmosphere Grossi creates for this initial scene is so old-fashioned your memory may naturally summon up the phrase, a woman “with child.” This thought is not unprompted, for just a few lines before the revelation Grossi had described for you the child-like nature of the parents-to-be: “They ate in silence, both sucking the soup from their spoons as softly as they could and playing their old game of trying to see shapes in the vegetables.” You have been smoothly guided to the emotional surprise: Characters, not yet fully formed adults, are about to become parents.

Less successful, because its obviousness is at odds with the subtlety of Grossi’s hand elsewhere, is the dominant metaphor of the novel — that of the billiards table and the psychological play enacted upon it. Still, this stand-in for life, fate and destiny is a seductive draw:

“Dino was here [at the billiards parlour] because he needed things to be clear and precise, to know where they were going to end, to know that there was still a piece of the world where lines and forces and movements followed exact trajectories, without frills, without flights of fancy.”

It occurs to me this description could serve equally well as Grossi’s personal credo as a writer.

The heart of the book is a love song to the pool hall and the passions unleashed there. On this ground alone, fans of the sport and fans of fictional depictions of its world (such as The Hustler) are likely to enjoy THE BREAK.

The novel’s 28 chapters average just seven pages each. This framework sets up a fade-in/fade-out rhythm that, along with other scenario-like elements, may remind you of expert film writing. However, it also points to what some readers may find to be a weakness in Grossi: his comforting conventionality. Seekers of the unconventional should steer clear. The characters and themes Grossi explores have reminded some critics of post-WWII neorealism in Italian cinema, with its emphasis on real lives and quiet tiny moments. I would add there are affinities to the kitchen-sink dramas of British and American playwrights of the 1950s (“Look Back in Anger”; “Marty”) that explored what Paddy Chayefsky called “the marvelous world of the ordinary.”

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A version of this review is posted on Amazon, here.

“The House of Certain Death” by Albert Cossery

Friday, December 30th, 2011

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THE HOUSE OF CERTAIN DEATH (La Maison de la Mort Certaine, 1944) is Albert Cossery’s first novel. It marks an apprentice writer’s transition from his first book, the collection of short stories titled “Men God Forgot” (1940), to the accomplished later novels for which he is best known.

The author introduces us to a group of Cairo inhabitants, a handful of impoverished families living in a rundown tenement located in the squalid Native Quarter. We get to meet them during a cold winter season that becomes “a course of unlucky days.”

They include Chehata, an out-of-work carpenter who has gone mad due to his inability to provide food for his wife and daughter; Rachwan Kassem, an oil stove repairman who succumbs to anger; Soliman El Abit, a melon peddler who succumbs to fear; Souka, a café singer in unrequited love with an abused married woman; Abd Rabbo, a street sweeper who selfishly abandons the neighborhood; Bayoumi, a monkey trainer who provides limited comic relief; Kawa, a man resigned to painful old age; and Ahmed Safa, a hashish addict who, alone among the band, can read and write.

The character most interesting to the modern reader, especially one who has followed the impact of the 2011 Arab Spring, is Abdel Al, an unemployed carter. It is he who, in the final third of the book, undergoes a personal awakening — a new political consciousness — that guides him, tentatively, to thoughts of revolt.

As for a plot, the book is meager. We witness a few unsuccessful attempts by the tenants to confront their landlord, Si Khalil, and force him to do something about a building in imminent threat of collapse. The notion of a house in ruins is an idea Cossery again would examine 55 years later in his final novel, “The Colors of Infamy” (1999), whose plot turns on a catastrophe caused by a slum landlord’s indifference.

In this earlier story the crumbling tenement takes on a heavy — and some will say heavy-handed — symbolic weight as a sign of the corruption of Egypt’s social and political. We are reminded often that the crack in the tenement’s foundation is growing (“day by day its dimensions were becoming more alarming”).  As we learn more and more of the personalities and perilous individual status of these forgotten men, women and children, we also learn of their collective peril. Cossery repeatedly inserts in the mouth of one character after another the exclamation, “Don’t you know that the house is about to crash?”

Throughout his career Cossery was prone to florid writing, a dubious skill he eventually learned to apply selectively. Here in his first novel this tendency is wholly unchecked. For example, the carter’s eight-year-old son, wandering the neighborhood streets, is described as being “alone in the immense charnel house where men were murdered by torment and tyranny.” As well, there is a great amount of repetitive and tiresome text separating rare moments of prose that chill us with savage revelations.

As in better works by this author, an oppressive atmosphere prevails. Its cause is an unresolved tension between apathy (“The world could crumble, the world could rot; the tenants would not move”) and action (“the soul-stirring force of revolt”). The problem I had is Cossery’s avoidance of building a case either way. Readers will wonder, Where does the author stand?

One would imagine he stands with Abdel Al who comes to realize how man has “concealed within him, secrets that could shake the world.” Abdel seeks to be sustained “by something bigger than himself.” The education of Abdel Al (“there are certain things that I am just beginning to understand”) is finely evoked.

“Ever since I began to think about the misery in which we all live, I can feel ideas sprouting inside me like poisonous weeds. I am always trying to sort them out, but just when I’m about to grasp them, they suddenly retreat into the shadows. And I am never able to catch up with them . . . . He was filled with a feeling of impotence that tortured him like an open sore.”

“He realized that, by himself, he could do nothing. What could one man accomplish? A lone man was a powerless thing, fit only for sorrow and for tears. Abdel Al would have liked to see everyone aroused by the same feeling; he hoped for a universal awakening for those who were affected by a common misery and a mutual desire to live.”

How disappointing it is for the reader that his evolution of thought, so harrowingly relayed by Cossery, leads . . . nowhere.

The book concludes with a climactic confrontation between Abdel Al and the landlord Si Khalil in an unnamed public square (could it be Tahrir Square?). It peters out with a mere exchange of insults and slogans. The tenant warns of an eventual “vengence of an oppressed people that nothing can stop”; the landlord responds: “You’ll be dead long before that.”

It is as if Cossery lost the nerve to pursue this grand theme.

“The House of Certain Death” is currently out of print. The likelihood of its revival in today’s uncertain publishing world is slim. Ardent and adamant Cossery readers will want to track down a used copy, if for no other reason that to trace the early development of this excellent writer. But the literary explorer should be prepared to find an awkward book, one lacking the controlled pace, the sly humor, and the intelligent talk that enlivens prime Cossery.

For those treats, check out the newly translated editions of the author’s “Proud Beggars” and “The Jokers,” both published by New York Review Classics.

Note: My reading was of the 1949 hardback edition of “The House of Certain Death” translated by Stuart B. Kaiser, published by New Directions as book 11 in its Directions Series. If ND decides to re-issue the books, news of that will likely be posted here.

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“The Father Costume” by Ben Marcus

Sunday, December 11th, 2011

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This novella by Ben Marcus (with illustrations by the artist Matthew Ritchie) is currently unavailable except from a handful of used book dealers who are selling copies at forbidding prices. What a shame.

The Father Costume was published in 2002 by Artspace Books as part of a series featuring “collaborations of image and text by today’s most innovative artists challenging the culture in which we live.” Here’s how Marcus describes his interaction with Richie:

We got together and talked a little bit about stuff that interested us. He’s really into physics and creation stories and origin theories of the universe, yet his relationship to all that heavy stuff is really light and playful and subversive. When you look at his paintings, there’s certainly nothing didactic or overbearing about them. He wants painting, essentially, to visualize the first moments of time. We threw some ideas around and decided to make a book. I wrote something and I showed it to him. He made some images and we got together again to mess around some more. There’s the book.

The book ought to be brought back into print, for the simple reason that I can think of no more exemplary introduction to the accomplishments of Ben Marcus, a so-called “experimental” writer who in these 45 pages belies that label’s negative implication of inscrutability by producing a work of deep emotion and resonance.

On the immediate level The Father Costume is a family drama told from the awed perspective of a child who attempts to follow the unfathomable actions of his father. It is narrated by one of two brothers removed by their father from their ancient home to escape some amorphous danger. They embark on a sea voyage that takes an ominous turn. As strange and at the same time as genuinely moving as Donald Barthelme’s affecting tale, The Dead Father (1975), the book bears an even closer kinship to Jesse Ball’s The Curfew (2011) which centers on the bond between a father and his daughter and is also set in a time and place not exactly of this world. Marcus previously examined relationships within nuclear families in Notable American Women: A Novel (2002) and does so again in the upcoming The Flame Alphabet (2012).

Veteran readers of Marcus know that the author achieves his signature brand of queasy disconnection and anxiety by means of language manipulation. He moves way beyond the relatively simple language games of Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” (where nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs, are replaced with nonsense word counterparts) — upping the ante by constructing sentences with familiar but “wrong” words, crafting images and actions that catch you off guard. Early in the The Father Costume the son notes, for example, “I dotted our windowsills with listening utensils, in case a message came in the night.” The reader must remain nimble in order to negotiate the uncertain ride of these games. What serves you best in this mythical and fantastical universe is a comfort level with surrealism and a willingness to tap into your intuitive side. As well you must also accept Marcus’ obsession over certain objects (here, cloth, costumes, lenses), rituals, and failures of communication. Early on the son explains, “I could not read fabric. I had a language problem.” He notes that “the antenna of our radio had been soaking in honey overnight.” Later he confesses, “My brother and I would have attacked my father with chopping motions until he had been silenced. Keeping maybe his hair, just in case.”

Some of this oddness is amusing, but all sense of playfulness disappears as the story reaches its climax with violence and death. That is when essential questions are unavoidable. What is the meaning of the cryptically-described “costumes” the father makes for himself and his sons? Are these their personas? Socially-imposed behaviors? God’s constraints? Can The Father Costume be viewed as a religious allegory, and a specifically Christian one? At the end of the story the surviving son wonders whether “there may be a father operating on the other side of the glass.” In an interview C. B. Smith conducted with Marcus devoted solely to The Father Costume the author explains: “The narrator has no idea what is really happening. That kind of innocence appealed to me, the trust you put in someone whose designs are beyond your comprehension.”

More telling to me is how in the final pages the narrator finds solace in reviewing his martyred brother’s voice: “And though I do not understand the words, I enjoy their defeat of silence . . . I know them to be the right ones, the ones that someone had to say. I am happy that they are mine now.”

A few words on the book as a physical object. Fascinating to me is the book designer’s decision to take cues from childrens books of an earlier age. This includes retro 1950s-style thick cardboard covers whose edges are cut to expose gray paper pulp, as if this were much-handled book. Adding to the worn look is a spine wrapped in black cloth tape, as if Dad had repaired the falling apart pages with a trusty spool of old-style electrical tape. Inside the front cover is a place inviting the young owner to fill in his or her name in clumsy block letters. All of this adds a sense of innocence to a challengingly adult book.

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