The Break-Up of Our Camp and Other Stories - Paul Goodman
On the first page I knew I was reading something unique. It wasn’t merely the stylistic innovation; there was an insistence on staying in the mind of the main character. This mind is the author’s; Goodman was a philosopher, a psychologist, a sociologist, a poet; it was his nature to dig deep. The setting for the stories is a summer camp for Jewish boys where Matt/Goodman is a counselor and head of the drama department. Woven into the plots are philosophical and sociological considerations, and the psychology of Matt and those he interacts with is explored. If you follow the thinking (which isn’t that hard to do) you arrive at the point Goodman is trying to make. The first story is exhilarating. “The Canoeist” is a lone Canadian who rows up to the camp, hungry and tired. Initially he’s treated hospitably, and he makes a place for himself among the boys (and the girls in a nearby camp). He says he’ll be leaving soon but keeps putting off his departure. Gradually the boys begin to exclude this outsider, then to barely acknowledge his existence. He responds by setting out in his canoe late one stormy afternoon; the boys watch him as he battles the wind and rain, slowly disappearing from sight. This is an important incident, and no aspect of it is lost on Goodman. In later chapters the canoeist returns, not in the flesh but in the imagination of the members of the camp; he has become a mythic figure. As for stylistic innovation, Matt tells the story in the first person, but we also get the thoughts of the canoeist (“I like it here” he thought. “Everybody is singing and laughing.”). Goodman was an original; he broke new ground. I’ve written a lot about a very slender volume – Camp contains six stories, and one is three pages long. But Goodman deserves attention. Someday I’ll tackle his magnum opus, The Empire City, though I find the prospect daunting. Too often he lets philosophical and sociological aspects predominate over character and plot. Fiction can’t breathe if it’s encumbered. I wonder if Goodman, for all his intellect, was aware of that simple fact.

The Trouble of One House - Brendan Gill
The “trouble” of the title is, in one sense, the early death of a woman who loved her three children and husband; all Elizabeth aspired to do in life was to love. The characters around her can’t be summed up in such simple terms. Elizabeth could be the life-affirming center of the novel, but she remains on the periphery, a shadowy presence (she is a shadow in a photograph she took of her children – the last thing she sees). Those who are conflicted and complex stand out boldly. Besides the members of the Rowan family there are seven major characters and half a dozen secondary ones. All come to life: they breathe, they sweat, they feel. Though most are fully comprehensible, a few act in ways I found inexplicable (which was a problem for me; bafflement isn’t a satisfying feeling). Some people occupy the opposite end of the spectrum from Elizabeth; they’re not only incapable of loving, they’re bent on destroying others (thus providing another level of trouble). They aren’t caricatures; they’re people we know, they’re ourselves. Gill’s prose is exemplary; scenes are done with assurance, the dialogue rings true. This isn’t a tidy novel, nor a consistent one, yet it works; everything seems interconnected. I discovered a fact that may account for the underlying unity. Elizabeth’s son, Michael, is five years old when she dies; Brendan Gill lost his mother when he was five. He must have remembered her as a shadowy figure, though one that left a lasting impression. As Gill grew to manhood the diverse world of complex characters stood out distinctly. His ability to capture that world is his major accomplishment. But he needed to include love: Elizabeth insisting from the shadows, quietly and perhaps futilely, People, it’s so simple.