Re-reads

Morte D’Urban – J. F. Powers

A novel about a Catholic priest? Not interested? Well, it’s your loss. I too avoid novels with a religious orientation, but what Powers gives us is a character study of a man, and we only get the nuts and bolts of the religious life. A leaky roof or a faulty heating system at the remote Minnesota retreat house to which Father Urban is assigned get more attention than spiritual matters. This assignment by the Bishop seems punitive; Urban could have been utilized much more usefully. For many years he “operated” from Chicago. He enjoyed the pleasures to be found in a big city – the high-end restaurants, where he could have a cocktail and champagne with his meal (and an expensive cigar afterward). When he traveled, to deliver sermons (he’s a highly gifted speaker, one with the common touch), he stayed at the best hotels. He seems, at first glance, to be a wheeler dealer. A salesman, a promoter who caters to the wealthy, a man with an innate sense of what is the most diplomatic thing to say or do. But when we get to know Urban – and gradually we do – we see someone worthy of respect. He has flaws, but none are serious; in a real sense he’s a man of the clothe, and his wheeling and dealing is directed at getting those wealthy benefactors to contribute financially to the church (with a few perks coming his way). In all his interactions, decency prevails – at times to his detriment. Powers seems to both hold respect for the moral underpinnings of the Church and to lament its pettiness and limitations. Some have labeled this a “comic” novel, which is way off base. Though it’s infused with a deft humor, there’s an unsettling aspect, which emerges fully in the dark ending: Father Urban is promoted to the office of Provincial in the province of Chicago, but it’s too late – several events have occurred that have broken his spirit. In that sense he dies (the “morte” in the title). As for Powers’ prose, it’s lovely, smooth and unobtrusively inventive. 5

The Old Boys – William Trevor

I looked up Trevor at this Jack London site and saw that I’ve reviewed twelve of his books. Twelve! That must be a record. Obviously, I like his subject matter (life’s outcasts) and his no frills approach. Though most of the reviews were lukewarm, and some novels I thought were failures (though I completed them), four were promoted to my MMB list, one of which was The Old Boys. It was his first novel (he disowned a previous one) and it was awarded a prestigious prize. He wrote it at age thirty-six and populated it with people twice that age. Also, his characters attended a British boarding school, which Trevor did not. The life in that type of school has been often portrayed in a highly negative light, as it is in this book. It suited a certain type of boy, but for many (George Orwell being one) it was a horrendous experience The assigning of a new boy to be a fag for an older boy (a servant, who can be punished by beatings) seems to me a sick tradition. A character named Nox was a fag for Jaraby, and develops a deep hatred for the man. Skip sixty years: Mr. Jaraby covets the job of president of the Old Boys Association, Mr. Nox plans to block his election. That’s the core of the plot, but what Trevor gives us is a look into the lives of a half dozen old men. It’s not a pretty sight. Only one of the men – Jaraby – is married, and his arguments with his wife take up a lot of space. As she says at the end, they are like “animals of prey turned in on one another.” All this is entertaining – often funny – but grim. In my reviews of Trevor’s other novels, I appreciated those in which he shows compassion. He shows no compassion here. Not for age, not for relationships. I once had more of a taste for this type of bleakness than I do now. Still, the novel moves along at a fast clip, it’s engrossing. 3

The Tenants of Moonbloom – Edward Lewis Wallant

Lot of problems. For starters – the number of characters. Must be over fifteen. You’d need a scorecard to keep track of them (I soon gave up trying). The prose has an inventiveness which is laid on pretty thick and is somewhat obtrusive. Then there’s the main character, Norman. We’re to believe that this thirty-something man has lived in a sort of cocoon, isolated from feelings and experiences (eg., he’s still a virgin). But no reason for how he got in this state emerges, nor is any convincing one given for his awakening – his “opening up” to emotions. As for plot, Norman is an agent who collects rent on a weekly basis from the tenants in four apartment buildings owned by his rapacious brother. These places range from one that is marginally decent to outright slums. On Norman’s visits we get glimpses of the various characters. I just let them wash over me as a wave of ragged, despairing humanity. All have problems, and most have complaints about something in their living premises, which they want Norman to fix. The pre-awakening Norman listens politely and does nothing. The post-awakening Norman tries to fix everything. Wallant’s obvious purpose is to make a point about life. He has one character say, “Courage, Love, Illusion (or dream, if you will) – he who possesses all three, or two, or at least one of these things wins whatever there is to win, those who lack all three are the failures.” Does Wallant succeed in making this point – through Norman’s awakening? Well, yes, to an extent, though it didn’t get to me emotionally. The novel is unique, and has a cluttered, rampant energy. It’s a work of passion, an abundance (overabundance) of creative fervor. Interestingly, Wallant existed in a world quite unlike that of his characters. He was an art director at a major New York public relations firm and was married, with three children; he lived in the affluent community of Norwalk, Connecticut. Though you could question what he knew of lost, despairing and often lonely souls, it’s clear that something in him responded to them, for they occupy all four of his books. Wallant had his say about life before his came to an abrupt end. He died at age thirty-six of a cerebral aneurysm. Tenants and another novel were published posthumously. 3

Look How the Fish Live - J. F. Powers
Seven good stories (if you disregard the three short ones, which are unsuccessful oddities). Five of them feature pastors, bishops, curates, etc. Powers is able to make these stories relevant to someone like me, who has little interest in religion, because his characters are first and foremost human beings. Though the religious life is treated with respect, it isn’t depicted as all-fulfilling. Powers writes about lonely (and often eccentric) bachelors who want to make close connections with others; instead they engage in a struggle of wills over petty issues, resulting in hurt feelings and resentment. My favorite story was “Farewell,” about a retired bishop trying to fill his days and to stay relevant; his plucky efforts are amusing and sad. Amusing and sad – Powers has the ability to evoke those feelings. The intricately-crafted buoyancy of his writing is on display in the opening lines of “Priestly Fellowship”: “The time to plant grass seed is in the winter, the man in the next parish had told Joe: just mix it with the snow and let nature do the rest. So Joe had done that – had believed a priest who rode a scooter and put ice cubes in his beer – and, toward the end of April, had ordered sod.” Powers never states that the grass didn’t grow; he frequently leaves it to the reader to fill in gaps, both small and large; this demands one’s attention, particularly in the dialogue, which can become a tangle of non sequiturs. To do justice to these stories, they shouldn’t be read one after the other; a sameness sets in because of their limited subject matter and the absence of women characters.

Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain
A woman bakes delicious pies, and out of that talent she builds a thriving business. Cain, who wrote this novel in 1946, when the memory of the Depression was fresh, cared about the money concerns of ordinary people. Mildred Pierce is an ordinary person; she has strengths and weaknesses, she acts well and she acts badly. Although there’s one aspect of her personality that’s aberrant: she’s obsessed with her daughter. It’s not motherly love, as Mildred wants to believe; she even has repressed sexual feelings for Veda. The roots of this obsession aren’t explored, but it seems that the girl’s proud, haughty nature, her determination not to be ordinary, made her someone Mildred looked up to. By her teens Veda is in the driver’s seat, and when thwarted in her goals she strikes out at her mother with a whip made of barbed words (“you poor, half-witted mope”). Mildred, no pushover, isn’t a match for a daughter unencumbered by tender sentiments. Though I found this sick relationship fascinating, it wasn’t convincing. The book delves into every aspect of Mildred Pierce, and in all other ways, in all her other relationships, she rings true. A book about a woman making her way in the business world can be engrossing, but Cain needed to inject an element of wildness into his plots, and calculating, amoral Veda provides it. As for the prose, the opening sentence can be seen as a stylistic statement: “In the spring of 1931, on a lawn in Glendale, California, a man was bracing trees.” Cain’s writing is devoid of ornamentation, admirably simple and straightforward.

High Sierra - W. R. Burnett
This novel was written nine years before The Asphalt Jungle. Though it’s much more crudely done, Burnett’s skill at portraying characters in different lights is again a strength. Roy Earle, just out prison, is thirty-seven but feels like an old man nearing the end of the line. He’s a career criminal with a reputation for being hard and dangerous. He is those things, but something has gone soft in him; the conflict between his callous and compassionate sides is at the core of the story. His relationship with Marie – one she wants for security – begins with Roy setting the terms: to him she’s “nothing but a lay.” The feelings they have for one another grow slowly, in a halting, uncertain fashion; love is unknown territory for both of them. This is a sad book. Roy has made a mess of his life; he accepts that fact with stoical resignation. Marie, outwardly tough and self-reliant, is neither; at age twenty-five she feels herself precariously close to becoming a bum. They form a makeshift family, which includes a stray dog. As the net closes in on him, Roy sends a short letter to Marie; it ends with the words: “I will get back some way. Don’t worry, kid. Tell the little nuisance hello for me.” He signs the letter “The Old Man.” For a hard-boiled crime novel High Sierra gets sentimental at times, but this reflects the soft side of Roy. It got to my soft side too.

The Vet’s Daughter - Barbara Comyns

Weird. The almost childish presentation (through the first person sensibilities of Alice) contributes to that effect. The characters and their actions are relentlessly strange, often menacing; the father is a monster. Then Alice starts levitating. Comyns served up too many oddities for my taste; nobody was real, so I began to read inattentively. At the end I had no idea who the man with the ginger mustache was. And it seems that I was supposed to know. Oh, well.

The Arrow of God - Chinua Achebe

The Nigerian author has written one of those books which I consider necessary. He gives the Western reader insight into a sensibility foreign to us. We’re presented with a world of gods and spirits and rituals and societal customs. The native priest Ezeulu is a complex and imposing figure; at times he commands respect, at others he elicits aversion. Though he’s a man of strong will and wisdom, his pride and inflexibility will lead to his downfall – and to the downfall of the native religion. The novel is about the end of the old ways, as embodied in Ezeulu. Christianity, with its more potent god, becomes dominant. The last sentence has the people offering the yams they harvest not to Ulu but “in the name of the son.” *

Lions, Harts, Leaping Does - J. F. Powers

Powers’ work is unique in both his subject matter and prose style. He writes about the Catholic clergy, but he’s concerned with their daily lives. Lives which often involve pettiness and annoyances and meanness and stratagems. Stratagems for getting a desk for one’s room from a stingy pastor; annoyance at a housekeeper who has taken on the unwanted role of wife. These men do consider their actions and thoughts and feelings in a religious light, but they’re regular people, like you and me, and their faith doesn’t bring peace and serenity (or does so only with great effort). Sadness and arid disappointment permeate the book; even the humor has a bitter edge. The prose is carefully crafted, with a cadence that the reader needs to get in step with; though lovely, it becomes an object of attention (this is true in some stories more than others; I prefer the direct style). Powers strays occasionally outside the religious world, and he seems quite at home there; more expansive, actually. There are too many constricting boundaries when writing solely about cloistered lives. Read these stories; but also read Powers’ wonderful novel, Morte de Urban.