Re-reads

Decline and Fall – Evelyn Waugh

Welcome to the Wonderful World of Waugh! He stated that he intended this first novel to be funny – nothing more. It’s a humor based on absurdity in characters and events. But it’s not silly or even far-fetched; it’s an intelligent humor. Our “hero” is Paul Pennyfeather, a name which pretty much defines his personality. He goes from a student at Oxford (he’s expelled for “indecent behavior”), to a master at a disreputable private school for boys in Wales, where one of the students, Peter Beste-Chetwynde, takes the hapless Paul under his wing and guides him on how to act and what to do (which is as little as possible). From there he progresses to the country estate of Peter’s widowed mother, the beautiful and fabulously rich Margot. She and Paul get engaged to be married, but that plan goes bust when Paul is arrested for human trafficking for the purpose of prostitution, and he’s sent to prison for eight years. There’s a happy ending, of sorts. In none of these events is Paul guilty of any misdoing; he’s simply a bystander for more dynamic personalities. One character describes Life as big spinning wheel. Most people on the wheel flounder around under its momentum; some seek the center, where all is calm; others, like Margot, go to the very edge of the wheel, where the momentum is greatest, and hang on. Paul sits on the sidelines and watches. Nothing fazes him, not even prison (“. . . anyone who has been to an English public school will always feel comparatively at home in prison.”) That quote is my only attempt to replicate Waugh’s unique humor. Anyway, read this one, it’s a lark, a sparkling gem, and is written with a lovely simplicity. 5

The Way West – A. B. Guthrie

I have a reference guide to American literature, and I looked up Guthrie, only to find he wasn’t included. They had Zane Grey, but not Guthrie. I’m also aware that few people today have any interest in a novel about a trip by wagon train to Oregon in the 1840s. I consider both of these facts to be regrettable. It was an epic and important event in our country’s history, and a novelist who could so vividly recreate it should not be forgotten. Guthrie gives us the mechanics of how the trip works, the hardships endured, and – most important – the people who did the enduring. These people are a varied lot, and run the gamut of human nature. We get to know them, some more intimately than others, and when tragedies happen they have real emotional clout. I was impressed by the courage and grit and resourcefulness on display, by women as much as men. And I wondered if people today could endure and prevail such a physically and emotionally taxing journey. Someone from a prior novel by Guthrie – the equally excellent The Big Sky – plays a major role. Dick Summers is persuaded to leave his home in Springfield to lead the train. This former Mountain Man, now fifty, is impressive not only in his knowledge, but in his character. The book received the Pulitzer Prize in 1949, but people were different back then, mainly in their values. 5

A Good Man in Africa – William Boyd

For quite a long stretch I found this book to be entertaining. It tells of the misadventures of Morgan Leafy, a British official stationed in the West African county of Kinjanja. Boyd uses the third person, but we’re always in Morgan’s mind. It’s quite a messy mind. Much of the humor – it’s a comic (or, rather, farcical) novel – derives from the difference between how Morgan feels (which is often rage, exasperation, dislike, etc.) and how he speaks and acts (in a proper, acceptable manner). He gets immersed in predicaments romantic/sexual and political (involving a corrupt African vying for power in an upcoming election). This was Boyd’s first novel, and its authenticity of place derives from the fact that he grew up in West Africa. This adds to the book’s virtues. So I’m enjoying myself when, at the halfway point, annoyances began to set in. One involves the sex; all the attention to the needs of Morgan’s penis seemed imposed for cheap laughs. And the plot got so complicated that it became unwieldy; by the last third the book’s structure was tottering under the weight. Then totter some more as Boyd simply piled on more complications. Eventually I got to the point where I didn’t want to continue reading. Well, I did, to the unsatisfying and ridiculously chaotic end (in which nothing is resolved). How can I evaluate a novel for which I had initial admiration that soured so completely? Since my negativity was far greater than my pleasure, I have to relegate it to a Delete.

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

Re-reads

The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas – Gertrude Stein

As you can see, there’s something odd about the title/author. This “autobiography” wasn’t written by Alice, nor is it about her. She exists only as an appendage to Gertrude Stein. It is about their life together, full of people, activities, travel. The writing is straightforward and makes for fairly pleasant reading. Stein occupied a central place in the Paris scene in the early 1900s, when major changes were taking place in painting and writing. But, as for the many artists and authors who populate these pages, a lot of them famous, we get very little in-depth characterization. For example, Picasso appears quite often, but I don’t know much about the man. Parties, visits, talk – Stein loved these things, and, though we’re told they happen, they don’t come to life. Stein deals in externals, not feelings (and this includes her relationship with Alice). The section of the book that had more of a story line concerns the years of WWI, when she and Alice delivered supplies to French hospitals. My picture of Stein herself is a bit hazy. She seems pleasant, intelligent, opinionated, strong-willed. People seemed to have liked her, liked to be in contact with her mind. She has fall-outs with some, but she writes critically of only one of them: Ernest Hemingway. She uses slang for the first and only time to call him “yellow” – a word whose intent is to be hurtful (he was still alive when the book came out). This from a woman who elsewhere never displays cruelty. It doesn’t reflect well on her (nor do I think Hemingway was yellow, and Stein offers no reason for using that word). In closing: Stein was disappointed that her writing was not appreciated – something she dearly wanted (“One writes for oneself and for strangers but with no adventurous publishers how can one come into contact with those same strangers”). Well, Gertrude, I can answer your question (which doesn’t contain a question mark). Just as you appreciated the new movements in art, which turned away from a depiction of humans – cubism, surrealism, etc. – you also turned to writing which was unfathomable to humans (such as the 1000+ page The Making of Americans). Anyway, in a business in which Who Do You Know matters so much – and you knew everybody of importance – your obscure work did get published (though probably read by very few). You were fortunate to live in a time and place when innovation (however worthless) was valued, and even considered to be genius. When you were accessible, such as in this book, people did read and enjoy you. A pity you turned to “experimental” writing. Experiments are for labs. 3

 

Three Women – Gertrude Stein

The first and last stories (“The Good Anna” and “The Gentle Lena”) were about simple, one-dimensional characters, and their portrayals were done with an effective simplicity. But I found the long story, much longer than the other two put together, to be unreadable. I tried, but had quit on it. For starters – the title: “Melanctha.” Whoever heard of such a name, and how the hell do you pronounce it? She’s referred to as Black, but Stein makes her of mixed race. Probably her white blood, in Stein’s mind, qualified her to be a suitable subject to write about, for her characters who are just plain “niggers” (a word Stein uses) are not worth bothering with. I objected to her portrayal of Blacks; I don’t think Stein knew squat about that race. Melanctha (I’m using copy and paste) is exceedingly complex. She engages in long, long, very long conversations with a Black doctor (also of mixed race). Their discussions, full of repetitions and done with a sort of cadence, is monotonous and pointless. This is self-indulgent writing. I think Stein put words on paper, never revising, letting her genius flow, pure and unadulterated. The Melanctha section of Three Women is an early example of the experimental writing that I referred to in the previous review and which would take over most of Stein’s work. (Delete)

A Moveable Feast – Ernest Hemingway

When I first read this memoir I may have been in a stage when I had a romanticized view of authors and writing – and of Hemingway. That’s long gone. Still, I enjoyed his account of how things were when he was in his twenties, living in Paris with his wife Hadley. Not that I believed much of what I was reading. He’s the hero of the piece, in that he’s always in control, a solid, sensible, all-knowing presence. A man who has little to say while others around him carry on, often foolishly. Feast is a falsification of the past – or, rather, a glamorization. Hemingway was in his late fifties and early sixties when he wrote the book, which was done in stages, and he wasn’t sound mentally and emotionally. So maybe he was indulging in a pleasant fantasy. He often claims that he was poor in the Paris years, and this simply isn’t true. He and Hadley had plenty of money. But poverty fits in with the image of a struggling writer living in a garret. As for the many authors he interacts with, one was Gertrude Stein. If you read my review of her Autobiography you probably wonder if he gets revenge for her comment about his being “yellow.” Not really (he even considers “Melanctha” to be “very good”). His portrayal of her isn’t a positive one – she comes across as dictatorial – and there’s a scene where he overhears her begging in a demeaning way. What I did find cruel was how he treated Scott Fitzgerald. Even if what happened between the two was true, it should not have been written. Maybe jealousy played a role, for Fitzgerald was his competitor as a writer. The book ends in an elegiac way: all that was precious would be destroyed. Hemingway blames it on the rich who invade his and Hadley’s lives. He writes of seeing Hadley waiting for him at a railway station: “I wished that I had died before I ever loved anyone but her.” But he would have an affair that would lead to the end of the marriage. As for Hadley’s presence in the book, it’s scanty. Her name doesn’t appear until page 54 (she’s previously referred to as “my wife”). The Scribner hardcover edition has an insert – a strange one, written by Jane Kramer. It mostly criticizes Hemingway and debunks the “facts” of Feast, often harshly. She calls it “an old man’s book, petty and incontinent.” She finds the sentences “pretentious,” as if “some besotted Hemingway student wrote them” (and then she gives a telling example). She attacks him as a man, especially his treatment of Hadley. So, the question arises, why was this introduction allowed by the lifelong publisher of his books? Hemingway committed suicide before Feast was published. It was edited by his last (fourth) wife, Mary, and there’s some controversy about how much was omitted and altered in her editing. It’s all so sad. 3

The Sun Also Rises – Ernest Hemingway

Surprisingly, I thought this novel was very good. My surprise is due to the fact that I normally don’t care for EH’s work, and I thought that Sun was on the MMB list because, when I first read it, I was an impressionable teenager. In my review of his letters I wrote that I liked them because they were spontaneous. This novel has the same spontaneity; we don’t see the author laboring to find the one true word. My interest was constant, and I glided along. The first-person narrator, Jake Barnes, is mostly a detached observer. He gets involved, has feelings, but they’re muted. In place of a plot we get episodes, mainly the Fiesta in Spain, where the bullfighting sequence takes place. The novel is saturated with drinking; people are often drunk. The two main characters that Jake interacts with are Brett Ashley and Robert Cohen. Both people are based on real life figures, and both are portrayed unattractively. Cohen’s Jewishness is a factor in his unattractiveness; there’s a definite strain of anti-Semitism in the book (the word “kike” appears too often). As for Lady Brett, she’s no lady. To me, she isn’t. She’s an alcoholic, a beauty in her mid-thirties, and is a user. She uses men as sexual partners, then drops them. She’s not malicious, but she still causes harm. She claims, and probably believes, that she loves Jake, but there can be no sex between them due to a war injury he sustained. Except in regard to her, no reference is made of this loss; Jake seems detached even from that. Still, as noted, he’s an observer, and the descriptions in the book are excellent (I especially liked the fishing episode). The dialogue, of which there’s a lot, is spot on – Hemingway gets the various voices right. Is there a higher meaning in Sun? I don’t see one. It’s just a well-written, entertaining excursion into a world long gone. It was Hemingway’s first – and, many consider, his “greatest” novel. I would amend that by calling it his best novel. He wrote it while still married to Hadley, but it was published after their separation. He dedicates the book to her and to his son. 4

Re-reads

The Blood of the Lamb – Peter De Vries

The last third of this novel is an emotional experience. Not just for me, but for you too, if you have a heart. Don Wanderhope portrays his daughter Carol and his relationship with her. At age ten she contracts leukemia and, after many remissions and relapses, dies two years later. A child of that age is a golden creature, and De Vries captures her and his responses to her illness. He does it with restraint, understatement. This kind of work would suffer from an outpouring of emotion from the author; the reader must generate those feelings from what is offered. Don does have episodes of anger, but they’re mostly directed at a god who is absent, who offers no help or solace. A child should not go through such an ordeal, should not be so early robbed of life. That she endures it with a simple grace is part of her nature. Is this novel hard to take? Well, yes, but it has value. It must be noted that De Vries wrote it shortly after his own daughter had died of leukemia. Just as the first two thirds cannot rightly be described as autobiographical, the Carol section does not faithfully correspond to De Vries’ life: unlike Don, he was married and had three other children. In Lamb those characters are stripped away, and Don faces things alone. I won’t review the novel as whole; it has its strengths and weaknesses. It’s that last third that matters, to a degree that few works achieve. 5
 
Borstal Boy – Brendan Behan
This is a nostalgia piece, written by a man who would die, at age forty-one, six years after it came out; the cause of his death was rampant alcoholism. But in this book he was sixteen and seventeen, a healthy, physically fit and emotionally strong young man on the threshold of life. Despite the success he would later achieve with his plays, I believe that his three years in a Borstal Prison were the high point of his life. Brendan was arrested because he was found in London with a suitcase full of ingredients for explosives. (This was during the years of the violent conflict between England and Ireland over the issue of Irish independence; Brendan was a fervent member of the IRA.) BB isn’t a bitter book. Though there are instances of cruelty, deprivation, violence, those are largely overshadowed by the positive aspects: the comradery, the generosity, the rough kindness. Not just from one boy to another, but from those who run the prison. Some “screws” are brutes, but most are fair-minded, a few even caring souls. And among Brendan’s fellow inmates, there are boys who are dangerous. But, all in all, Borstal was not a bad place, which is to the credit of the British. I don’t believe there are many women who will read this book, but maybe they should; it’s instructive in showing the male psyche, particularly the need for love and the sensitivity to slights. In a way, Brendan was made for prison life: he was tough, stoic, diplomatic. A born leader. And smart. The Catholic schools in Dublin are to be congratulated: they produced a working class boy who was fluent in Latin. BB is an unrestrained outpouring of memories; it’s a spree of words, particularly dialogue. For me this often went on too long. But it’s Behan’s book, his experiences, and they do come alive. Last observation: has any small country produced as many top-notch writers as Ireland? 4
 
Castaway – James Gould Cozzens
A short book, under a hundred pages, with an interesting premise. A man (Mr. Lecky) is locked in a large department store. In the ensuing days nobody else enters the store. What occurred to bring this situation about is never divulged. Lecky is like Robinson Crusoe on his island, though he has at hand, on the many floors of the store, all that he needs to survive. We follow his efforts to get by. But soon a major problem emerges: someone else is in the store (this man is always referred to as “the idiot”). Lecky immediately considers him to be a threat to his life, and sets out to hunt him down and kill him – which, after much bumbling, he succeeds in doing. That accomplished, we get more pages about “getting by.” As I noted: an interesting premise – and Cozzens manages to make it a colossal bore. The problems are twofold. Lecky never takes on human dimensions that I could relate to. I never cared about the guy, never felt close to him. The only feeling he evoked is dislike (with some puzzlement thrown in). The puzzlement stems mainly because Cozzens seems to be making a point about Life, but I never had an inkling of what that was. The ending is supposed to be a revelation, but my only revelation about it – and the book as a whole – was, “What a mistake.” (delete)
 
Night Train – Martin Amis
Though this novel is not on my MMB list, it was sitting on the shelves with other books that are. And I recalled that I had liked it in some way. But this time around I had major problems. For starters, why does an upper-class British author, the son of the famous Kingsley, write a police procedural mystery set in the USA and told in the first person by a tough woman detective named Mike? The research going on behind the scenes to create a sense of authenticity is way too conspicuous. And, BTW, in case you’re wondering, Mike is not a lesbian; she lives with a guy, though she has no on-page interaction with him; he’s just a name. (So does he exist?) Peculiarities abound. But there’s the Biggie, the central element in the plot: a twenty-seven-year old woman, who has absolutely everything going for her, commits suicide (three bullets into her mouth). Why? – this novel is a whydunit. Mike, who had known Jennifer since she was a child, follows the trail of her life searching for the fly in the ointment. I waited for the reason for the suicide to emerge, increasingly impatient (and annoyed). But all leads led to dead ends. Instead Amis served up a heavy dose of verbiage of a deep and cryptic philosophical nature. There’s no “Aha!” moment because Amis had no solution to the premise he constructed. This book is woefully misconceived and leads to nothing but a cop out.

Re-reads

Burmese Days – George Orwell

A book written in anger can be exhilarating, which is the case here. Orwell spent five years as a member of the Imperial Police Force in Burma, so his anger is based on personal experience. Mostly he’s angry at the mentality of the British administrators who are in charge of exploiting the considerable wealth of Burma. Most of them are contemptuous toward the native Burmese (the word “nigger” appears with monotonous regularity in their conversation). Yet they are not above using the women for sexual purposes. They’re an unhappy, dissatisfied, lonely group of men, who drink to excess (in some cases to unconsciousness). Flory is the main character, and it’s obvious that he is Orwell. But Orwell is in an attack mode, and Flory is not spared; at the end he is destroyed – violently. Which, I believe, is a misstep. One aspect of the discontent among the British is that most are without wives. When a young British woman arrives Flory falls in love with her. A love without a valid basis, for she is the polar opposite of all he believes in. Yet he convinces himself that she can share his innermost feelings, that they can be soul mates. The proper ending, in my estimation, would be for the two to marry. Flory would soon enough find out what a disastrous mistake he has made. But that may be a track Orwell wasn’t willing to pursue; the plot is already quite complex, teeming with characters and situations, and I think he wanted to cut things short. The prose is utilitarian, but the novel has a potent velocity. If Orwell cared enough to write something, it has value. 4

The Night Visitor – B. Traven

In 2009 I reviewed this collection, and deemed the stories to be “good (or pretty good; none are very good).” The reason I’m reviewing it again is that previously I didn’t reread the long title story. I wrote in the review that I would “let that chilling nightmare remain intact in my memory.” And I cite it as the sole reason why the book is worthy of being on my MMB list. Well, this time around I did reread “The Night Visitor,” and it left me cold. No chills, no nightmarish feelings were evoked. I found the premise to be unconvincing, and the Indian from the past who emerges at night seemed no more than a contrivance. My ho-hum reaction brings up the whole problem in these rereads. At some unknown age I was obviously moved by the story. Why? What changes occurred in me? – for the story has not changed. Which evaluation is valid? I’m not sure. Still, since many rereads do hold up, I have to delete this one.

The Collector – John Fowles

This novel disturbed me as very few do. The first section is told from Frederick Clegg’s POV, in his voice. We see his logic, his justifications, and we also see what he doesn’t: the horror of his actions. This is a warped man, and to be in his mind is chilling. Miranda, the person he “collects” (as he does butterflies) and holds prisoner also emerges. Not through any understanding on Clegg’s part (he can’t even understand himself), but through her responses and actions that he duly records. She wants desperately to live, and fights for her freedom in any way she can devise. That makes up the first section of this 300 page book. The next section is told from Miranda’s POV, through her writing in a sort of diary. This section, for me, was a big drop-off. Actually, we already knew all we needed to know about Miranda. Her thoughts are just not that interesting. A lot of pontificating about what is valuable in life, about art, about an older guy she’s infatuated with (to me he came across as a prig). Truth to tell, I found myself dragging through this section. I can understand Fowles’ dilemma. To have a novel, and not a novella, he had to take the path he took. He just wasn’t able to pull it off. Yet I need to be more charitable to the Miranda who is writing in her diary: she’s young, her ideas are important to her, she tries to keep them alive in captivity. After her death we return to Clegg’s POV. Always justifying. Though he’s a prisoner, in his own distorted mind, he victimizes others. What “grade” do you give a novel in which the first half is a tour de force and the second half mediocre? The strengths are so compelling that they win over the day. I can only deduct one point from a five. 4

Animal Farm – George Orwell

Orwell originally subtitled this novella “A Fairy Story.” I’m glad that was dropped, but I see a parallel between Farm and the work of the Grimm brothers. Their tales were indeed grim, full of cruelty and horrific events – and so is Farm. In this reading I had a gut reaction: I truly detested Napoleon and his toadies and I was appalled by the methodical subjugation of the animals. This reaction on my part was, I believe, Orwell’s intent. By framing his story in an almost childlike way he was able to convey what he couldn’t accomplish in a political essay: his hatred of the Communist regime. What he did in Farm was deceptively simple; he wrote that it was “the only one of my books that I really sweated over.” He had trouble finding a publisher; at the time (1945) England and the USSR were allies against Hitler. But Orwell saw clearly what was going on under Stalin’s iron fist. That was his gift: to see clearly and to find a way to express his feelings. In this instance, the way he chose was perfect. 5

Amongst Women – John McGahern

This was the Irish writer’s next to last novel. I had read his final one – By the Lake – and loved it. This one doesn’t evoke love. It’s much harsher, and, though well-written and engrossing, I was left feeling there were gaps that should have been filled. I wound up not understanding what made the main character, Moran, tick. This small-scale farmer could be good natured, charming, amusing, but too often his mood would abruptly change, and he would say things that were extremely hurtful. Where did this cruel streak come from, what provoked it? Was it his youthful participation in the Irish War for Independence, in which he committed violent acts? (Not, in my opinion, a sufficient reason.) The objects of his affection and his cruelty are his five children and his second wife (we know nothing of his first wife, the mother of the children). All in his family are acutely aware – and apprehensive – of his potential black moods, yet are overly grateful for his good ones. He exercised a sort of tyranny over people, yet “Daddy” – at least for the women – is a great man, and they love him. He never uses physical force on the women, though he did on his two sons (both of whom rebel; one breaks ties almost completely). While I didn’t understand Moran, the women came across strongly. Especially Rose, the wife, who is constantly put in a position of peacemaker. Anyway, in closing, I offer my feeling about Moran: he didn’t deserve the love and respect he received from the women in his life. But at least I was interested enough in him and the others to form a strong opinion.

Re-reads

The Big Love – Tedd Thomey

Actually, the cover cites Mrs. Florence Aadland as the author – the book is “As told to Tedd Thomey.” He did the writing, but in her voice. We occupy Florence’s mind – exclusively, with, I believe, no intrusion by Thomey – as she tells the story of her fifteen-year-old daughter’s affair with an aging Errol Flynn. Did Thomey use a tape recorder? Or just take notes? Did Mrs. Aadland approve of what he had written? I think she must have, since she’s listed as the author. This book brought to mind Jean Stafford’s A Mother in History. I objected to Stafford’s attitude toward Lee Harvey Oswald’s mother; she gave us nothing but a hatchet job. But Thomey seems not to include an authorial opinion on Florence Aadland. He lets her emerge. It’s obvious to the reader that she engages in a distortion of the truth to make what occurred seem justifiable. It’s fascinating to see a mind in motion, trying to turn what is lurid into a “big love.” Readers will judge Florence Aadland harshly. She deserves it, for her bad choices. Anyway, she’s fully punished for any mistakes she made. This book is about ambition, and the lure and power that celebrity yields. It’s about victimization when the victim is complicit. Though told in told a most simple way, it can be seen as an American tragedy. 4

The Magic Christian – Terry Southern

Short, even for a novella. Yet I couldn’t make it to the halfway point. The fabulously wealthy Guy Grant devises outlandish projects that reveal how low people will stoop to get money. Well, what’s new about greed, in a society where money is so important? To demean people struck me as cruel. The book is supposed to be comic, but it’s just self-indulgent, juvenile nonsense. I must have been juvenile to have once liked it. (delete)

Things Fall Apart – Chinua Achebe (Nigerian)

Written by a Nigerian in English, this novel presents us with a rich and complex native African culture. Achebe doesn’t glamorize or sanitize it; it has its good and bad aspects. As for the good, their system of dispensing justice when disputes arise seems sound. But women are decidedly subservient (a role they accept). And some beliefs lead them to brutal acts, such as disposing of twins at birth in the Evil Forest. They are not a peaceable people, though wars between tribes are rare. Many gods, in many forms (quite a few malignant), influence people deeply. Their culture is rich in verbal myths, in origin stories (such as how the turtle got its uneven shell). This is a cohesive society in which there are no un-believers. Then, in the last third of the novel, white missionaries arrive and exert a divisive influence; they slowly but inexorably undermine the old beliefs. This constitutes things falling apart. After the missionaries a governing body arrives, and they use force to exert their dominance. Though a novel, this is mainly an anthropological study because the main character, Okonkwo, is one-dimensional, and evokes no sympathy; also, there isn’t any plot to speak of. Still, I can see the importance of the work: it makes a foreign culture come to life. As for the prose, it is admirably simple, straightforward, strong. 4

Re-reads

The Car Thief – Theodore Weesner

This is the story of a boy in his mid teens who isn’t making it in life. He lives in a shabby apartment with his father, who’s an alcoholic, and  he’s an outsider at school. He’s full of amorphous feelings that bring on a restlessness, and to ease the pressure he steals cars and drives about aimlessly before abandoning them. It’s a purposeless act, and he’s not sure why he does it. He winds up being arrested and sent to a detention center for wayward youths. When released he returns home and tries to get straight. But it’s hard. Weesner makes Alex and his predicament believable. We’re in his mind for over 300 pages, but he isn’t presented in an outwardly sympathetic way; he’s not made a victim, or particularly sensitive or insightful. And yet – as they say – I felt for him. His father plays a big role in his life. He’s a good man – kind and understanding – and he holds a steady job at a factory, but his unhappiness constantly leads him to the bottle. The mother is an uncaring absentee in Alex’s life, and I felt antagonistic toward her. Yes, this book generated strong feelings in me. It was Weesner’s first novel, written when he was in his late thirties. It’s clearly autobiographical; he was Alex, complete with the theft of cars, the stay in a detention center, the dropping out of school and joining the army (which is where Thief ends). It’s very hard to write about oneself – to do it truthfully. But this unadorned work rings true. 4

The Ox-Bow Incident – Walter Van Tilburg Clark

In the first twenty or so pages I had problems. There was too much detailed description of men whose role in this affair had not been established. And then, when news of a cattle rustling and murder are delivered to the saloon, and a posse is proposed, with the intent of capturing and lynching the perpetrators, one character goes into a long speech about Justice and the Law vs. mob rule. He reappears at the end, wrestling with the issue of guilt. These are lapses – readers can arrive at their own conclusions about such issues without a spokesperson expounding them. In his Introduction to the edition issued by the Time Reading Program, Clark writes that the book “overexplains itself, to some extent.” True. The book is at its best when it simply allows the strength of the tale to take over. And with the arrival of the authoritative figure of Major Tetley things start to move with purpose. Move slowly, but the with an inevitability that’s unsettling. Unsettling because the reasonable option of bringing the three accused men into town is rejected. The person telling the story, in the first person, is Art Croft, and he constitutes the novel’s main strength. He’s an observer who sees both sides, but doesn’t back either. In his telling the inner natures of various people are revealed, and the moral issues emerge naturally. The atmosphere Clark creates is as bleak as the lives of people who live in Bridger’s Wells. This is a “western” without one bit of glamour or heroics. Incident was another first novel (I’ve been rereading a lot of first novels, haven’t I?). 4

No Laughing Matter – Joseph Heller and Speed Vogel

No, it isn’t a laughing matter. I’ve started three books by and about writers, and have been hugely disappointed in all of them. I’m reviewing Laughing because I got further into it than I did with the other two (though not to the halfway point). I abandoned ship because I couldn’t bear to spend any more time with Heller and his pal Speed. The story: Heller comes down with Guillain-Bare syndrome and is hospitalized for six months. His chapters alternate with Speed’s. Seems Heller is a quite a character, cranky and rude, but everybody just loves the guy. They’d give their eye teeth for him. And all these people are Somebodies, many with names you’d recognize: Mel Brooks, Zero Mostel, Dustin Hoffman, Mario Puzo. Everybody who runs in the Heller/Vogel gang is a colorful character, and they know all the In Places in New York. They do such things as form a Gourmet Club; every week they go to Chinatown and gorge themselves while carrying on with tremendous wit (according to Speed, they far exceed the Algonquian Club in witty repartee). But I saw no evidence of wit. What stands out – glaringly– from the Speed sections is the word “friend.” If I had the energy I’d count how many times that word appears in one of his chapters; it would surely set a world record. Everybody is a friend if you’re famous and wealthy. If you’re neither, New York can be a dismal place. Sour grapes? Well, back when I first read this book I was young and impressionable. Now I’m old and cynical. Who sees the truth more clearly? This is a phoney book, a lame attempt to make money. Heller offers up descriptions of his condition and treatment, but in only one chapter does he touch (lightly) on emotions like fear and  depression. Instead he meets a nurse who’s just about perfect, and love takes over. That’s when I checked out. The other two books? Both had an ass-kissing feel. In A Friendship Willie Morris gives a loving portrait of James Jones. Too much love for me to stomach. In A Private Correspondence Lawrence Durrell exchanges letters with Henry Miller. It begins with an adoring fan letter, and what proceeds is a high-blown literary discussion. How I was ever able to follow this convoluted nonsense is a mystery to me. I guess it was that impressionable stage I was in. I thought, as someone with literary ambitions, that this was the life fo me. But now I see the callousness and indifference of that exclusionary world. (All three books are deletions)

Re-reads

The Night of the Hunter – Davis Grubb

The tone and atmosphere that envelopes this book is unique and effective. What Grubb establishes is a world far apart from ours. His novel takes place in the Ohio River Valley of West Virginia during the Great Depression. It’s an already impoverished area which holds onto strong fundamentalist religious beliefs. The story he tells is a child’s nightmare with the surrealistic elements of nightmares. What is the basis for the fears the very young have – of a monster in the closet, under the bed? John, at age nine, has to live in an all-too-real nightmare, and there is nobody he can share his burden with. His monster – the Preacher – wants to know where $10,000 in stolen money is hidden, and he knows that John knows where it is. But John has sworn a solemn oath to his father not to reveal the secret – no matter what. This is a boy burdened by a responsibility far too great to bear, and we watch with apprehension the effects on him. That’s the story, and Grubb’s artistry in telling it is remarkable. His  prose is rough-hewn, as if carved out of wood, which is exactly what it should be, and the people speak in the vernacular of their time and place. There are elements of a fable, of a gothic fairy tale, of a religious allegory concerning good and evil. We’re presented with a conflict between Love and Hate, those two words etched on Preacher’s fingers. Read this one – it’s an experience. 5

The Gypsy Moths - James Drought

This is the weakest of my deletes. I can briefly sum up its virtues. It’s an easy read, the scenes of parachute jumping are fairly interesting (Drought was trained as a paratrooper). And it’s short. But the first person narrator is limited in what he knows about the relationships in the family he and two other stunt jumpers stay with; there are dire problems between Mr. and Mrs. Brandon, the narrator’s aunt and uncle, but we never find out what they are. Also staying with them is a college student named Annie who wears the label “love interest” for our young narrator. (BTW, I’m not using the narrator’s name because I don’t recall it; he’s always referred to as “Kid” by the other jumpers). As for those two guys, we never know why Rettig has a death wish, which he carries out after, apparently, having, on his first and only night with the Brandons, a tryst on the sofa with the wife. (There’s a lot I don’t know, right?) Browdy, the third jumper, is only interested in profits. Anyway, after the fatal first jump there’s a second one the next day (to cover funeral expenses) in which the Kid does the dreaded Cape Trick. On the way down he chooses Life over Death. He and Annie decide to get out of the Brandon house, and to take a train to parts unknown. The End. The movie version, directed by John Frankenheimer, was, as I recall, good. It starred Burt Lancaster as Rettig and Deborah Kerr as Mrs. Brandon. Obviously, with those big stars, the script filled in the gaping holes that are present in this amateurish first novel. 1 (delete)

Little Man, What Now? – Hans Fallada (German)

A novel about love and money. Great topics, handled exceedingly well. Fallada presents us with a young couple, Hans and Bunny, who are both believable and appealing. (Especially Bunny – one of the strongest female portrayals in fiction.) That they love one another is presented simply and yet with depth. That’s the key element that marks this novel – it’s simply written and yet achieves depth. I cared about these two, from the first page to the last. The aspect of money comes in because they have very little. The novel was published in Germany in 1932, in the midst of that country’s economic collapse. While prices skyrocketed, wages were low and jobs scarce. This brought out the worst in many (especially those in charge) and the best in others. The novel begins with the couple finding that Bunny is pregnant; Hans promptly proposes marriage (this is not forced on him; they are already fully committed to one another). We follow them as Hans tries to find work, and then to hold onto a position as a salesman at Mandels Department Store. They move from place to place, always trying to make ends meet. When the baby is born, the pressure increases. The novel was immensely popular in Germany; it spoke to millions. The words “Nazi” and “Communist” appear a few times, but the book doesn’t concern itself with politics. Hitler’s name is absent, and, though a few characters happen to be Jewish, anti-Semitism is also not an issue. Again – this novel is about love. I can’t think of anything I’ve read about that emotion that rang so true. Fallada doesn’t give us romanticism; rather, he makes us believe in a bond that cannot be broken. At the end, Han’s self image as a man is shattered – but Bunny will stand by him. Of course she will. This ending is powerful, it left me shaken. I can only hope these two make it – somehow. 5

Angel – Elizabeth Taylor

Angelica Deverell is her name, and we follow her life from age fifteen to her death some five decades later. She’s the author of long novels teeming with opulent fantasy. These novels have no literary merit, but are wildly popular with a certain set of readers, and they make Angel wealthy. She’s a person who, since childhood, escaped into fantasy worlds; she didn’t accept the shabby one she was born into, or its people (including her mother). She sees herself as someone grand, and she fully lives out that role. Reality is rejected, or twisted, to suit her tastes. That she succeeds in self-deception is a mark of a strong personality, and Angel is definitely formidable. A force, one fully capable of plowing over anything or anyone in her way. But how long and faithfully can one carry out self-delusion? That’s the bare outline of the unique story that Taylor tells with ease and artfulness. It’s a complex tale, with many events, many characters. The depth with which those secondary characters are developed is one of the books achievements. This novel is full of remarkable achievements. One of which is the fact that I came to care about Angel, with all her enormous flaws (of which an oblivious selfishness is one). I even felt protective of her. 5

Re-reads

Life in the Crystal Palace – Alan Harrington

This is a study of a corporation. An ideal corporation, but, for Harrington (who worked in Public Relations), not a good fit; he was by nature a rebel caught in a labyrinth of benevolent conformity. So he’s critical of the Crystal Palace, though not in an angry, spiteful way. His approach is analytical, and it’s complete – he leaves no stone unturned. Which made for slow going. I was often uninterested, detached. Maybe, when I first read the book, I was employed in a big corporation, or had recently left one. So the book had relevance. Now it lacks that, and is basically a sociological study, so it does not belong on a list of Most Meaningful Books. 2 (delete)

The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne – Brian Moore

This is an angry book, and Moore goes on attack in a brutal fashion. No subtleties or niceties here; even the prose is as blunt as a club. He doesn’t spare poor Judith Hearne, the spinster of meager means who, on the first page, moves into a new boarding house. She isn’t portrayed with much sympathy: she’s not very intelligent or insightful and has many minor faults (such as an unwarranted snobbishness). Yet she’s a desperate soul – desperate for love or friendship; she feels herself at the dead end of a life of emotional deprivation, and can’t accept it. Most of those around her are specimens of humanity at its worst – meanness and cruelty and greed are prevalent. The plot centers on Judith’s hopes for a relationship with a man; not the man of her dreams – far from it – but a man anyway, someone who will care for her, care about her. This dream is, of course, shattered. Then, halfway through the book, Judith’s severe drinking problem is introduced. I didn’t quite buy this, especially since we never see her in her wild intoxicated state; I think Moore was using the alcoholism as a means to hurry his character to her end – an end in which she loses even her religious beliefs. Yet, I must say, at that end, on the last page, when Judy (she liked to be called Judy) is in a nursing home (where she will stay), and she begins to gather the few of her precious life possessions around her, I was truly moved. Yes, we try to carry on. Moore’s anger is at the injustice of life, though he also shows his deep enmity for the Catholic religion and the city of Belfast, which is portrayed as a woefully dismal place. A few notes: The original title was simply Judith Hearne, and the book was turned down by ten (some sources say twelve) publishers before it found a home. 4

Mrs. Bridge – Evan S. Connell

The novel is composed of what I’ll call “snapshots” (117 of them).They are often less then a page long, seldom over two, and all have titles (Good-by Alice, Tea Leaves). These snapshots present scenes – of a quiet nature – that cover the life of Mrs. Bridge from early marriage to elderly widowhood. She has all the things that Judith Hearne desired: a husband, three children, a beautiful house (the Bridges are part of the affluent Country Club set in Kansas City). Yet the husband is a workaholic who’s at his office most of the time, and when he’s home there seems to be no relationship between them; he’s tired, taciturn by nature, and is not the type to discuss feelings. As for the children, two of them turn away from her at a very young age. Why? She loves them and is a dutiful mother. Perhaps there’s one thing about her that they rebel against: her beliefs are conventional; she gently disapproves of anything they do that falls outside of propriety. This is, in fact, the one characteristic about Mrs. Bridge that stands out. Propriety rules her life: she never deviates in her thinking from anything that is not “proper.” She also has too much empty time on her hands, with a live-in cook/waitress/maid and a weekly laundress. Though she sometimes thinks of expanding her horizons – reading a good book or attending a class – all these ideas quickly die on the vine. But Connell has not written a harsh portrayal of a woman who is, as he’s stated, based on his own mother. She doesn’t deserve harshness: she hasn’t a mean bone in her body. And, as time goes by, a fleeting darkness begins to pervade her thinking. She considers her life in which each empty day proceeded like the one before. But she cannot change; that same life moves on and on, and there comes a time when moments of depression and even panic set in, a feeling that she is unloved and unwanted. All is not well in her tidy little world. I felt, despite Mrs. Bridge’s limitations, that the people around her – husband and children – failed her. What came across for me in this portrait was a sense of guilt and regret – embedded there by the author. For the son in the novel is one of those who failed her. This is a fine novel, highly readable and artfully done. 5

Mr. Bridge – Evan S. Connell

Strange. In all my other re-reads I recognized that I had been there before. Often I could remember the endings (in the case of Judith Hearne I knew her shoes would appear on the last page “with the little buttons, winking up at her”). But with Mr. Bridge I recognized nothing. Yet I had it listed as one of my Most Meaningful Books, and I had it in my bookcase. My conclusion is that either it never made any impression or, more likely, I had never read it – it’s on the list solely as a companion piece to Mrs. I plowed my way though most of it before calling it quits. It uses the same format as the preceding book, but is much longer. The snapshots are repetitive in presenting character; we keep getting slight variations on the man’s feelings, words and actions (all ultra-conservative). To be fair, it’s a thorough portrait of Mr. Bridge. But I found him to be a bore, nor did I like him. And whereas Mrs. was artfully done, this was a plodding piece of writing (which is, actually, in keeping with the character’s personality). In it Mrs. is merely an insipid presence and the obnoxious son is given far too much attention. Connell wrote this book ten years after Mrs. (which was his first novel). Maybe he felt he needed to complete the family portrait. Maybe he was searching for something to write. But the creative spark wasn’t there – a sad decline by a writer who always had a struggle producing fiction. And sad too because it serves to detract from its predecessor. 2 (delete)

Re-reads

The Professional – W. C. Heinz

This novel follows a boxer’s preparation for a title bout. One of its unique aspects is its accurate depiction of the world of boxing. (You can throw out all those fight movies you’ve seen – they’re totally bogus and ridiculous.) The novel is primarily about three people: Eddie Brown, the boxer; Frank Hughes, a sports writer who’s doing a magazine story on Eddie; and Doc Carroll, Eddie’s trainer and manager. We’re never in Eddie’s mind – we only get to know him by his words and actions – but Frank is the first person narrator, so we’re privy to his thoughts and feelings. We also get to know Doc, because he talks a lot to Frank, and he’s quite open about what he thinks and feels. The locale, for almost the entire book, is a hotel in upstate New York – a secluded place in the off-season. It’s where Eddie, the contender, prepares his body and mind (under the scrupulous guidance of Doc).You’re not interested? That’s a shame, because this is a novel that digs deep into character. It’s conveyed mostly through dialogue – dialogue that ranks with best I’ve ever read. Heinz (a sportswriter; this was his only work of fiction) was a master of clean, clear prose. It’s interesting that the championship bout, which is the goal being pursued with such dedication and determination, takes up only a single page. 5

Heaven’s My Destination – Thornton Wilder

Twenty-three-year-old George Brush is tall, handsome, intelligent – and a man devoted to passing on his moral beliefs. They stem from his study of the Bible (plus some Gandhi and a touch of Marx). It’s not a private affair (though he lives in accordance with the beliefs he advocates); he takes every opportunity to instruct strangers on how to live the proper life, and he will politely correct any transgressors he comes across. He sees this as a duty. The reception he gets can range from disinterest to indignation to physical attacks. George emerges not as a comic character but as a lonely man unable to relate to flawed humanity (which includes, to his despair, women; he very much wants to be married and have a family). His job as a traveling salesman takes him through the Midwest and South during the Great Depression. He’s very successful at selling textbooks to schools because he has perused every volume, and he believes that Caulkin Press puts out the best product of its kind (if he didn’t believe this he wouldn’t have taken the job). You might get the impression that Destination is heavy going, but the opposite is true. It has a jaunty, buoyant quality, and is often quite funny. That said, it offers up ideas. Though George seems to change nobody, is he right in his beliefs? At any rate, I loved the guy, in all his naive sincerity. This is one of those rare books that I think everybody should read, for both the pleasure it gives, and for those ideas. 5

The Deep Sleep – Wright Morris

The way this book is constructed is unique. There are five characters, three women and two men, and the narrative constantly shifts from one to another. It works like this: we’re in one character’s mind, and then someone else enters the room, and we shift to that person’s perspective. Each character has his/her four or five pages (in the third person, with their name as the title of their section) and this shifting goes on for over 300 pages. We get to know each of these people (though the men come across more strongly then the women). Actually, there’s a sixth character, Judge Porter, who is recently deceased; it’s his passing that has brought his daughter and her husband to the house. The Judge emerges in a vague way – a man respected in the community but a stranger in his home (why this is I didn’t fully understand, but it has to do with his wife). I’ve read a lot of Morris’s work, and it seems to me that he loved the act of writing too much, which can result in words that have no real purpose in developing the plot and characters. Sometimes the book rambles without purpose, and I would become uninvolved. But, still, there’s a lot that’s good – and you won’t read anything quite like it, which counts as an achievement. 3

The Cook – Harry Kressing

This novel has been praised as a diabolical masterpiece, and it’s obvious that at some time I must have been one of its fans. My theory about its success is simple: you have to buy into the premise that Conrad (the cook) is all powerful. His manipulative skills are overwhelming, and he handles the wealthy family where he is employed as if they are as malleable as warm putty. By the end his employers have become his servants – literally, uniforms and all – and he rules at the Prominence mansion. On this reading that premise increasingly became unacceptable. Never a hitch, never a misstep as Conrad moves smoothly to his goal? People are simply weak pawns without wills? Really? It’s as easy as that? It all came to seem contrived, and the predictability of events caused a ho-hum feeling to set in. Not helping matters was my objection to the cruelty – notably a repellant scene where Conrad impales another cook’s hand to a tabletop. Its weirdness gives this book a compelling aspect, and it’s written in a nice prose style. But there’s not enough of substance to make it worth your (or my) time. 2 (delete)

Re-reads

The Big Sky – A. B. Guthrie

In our country’s northwest, in the mid-1800s, there existed a strange breed called mountain men. Guthrie’s considerable achievement is to bring them and their world alive. This panoramic novel rings true, and the truth is often brutal. To survive these men had to be resourceful, courageous, hard. If they were to eat, they must kill. If they were to make the little money they needed (they mostly lived off the land, but certain necessities must be bought), they had to kill beaver and buffalo for the skins and hides. They faced the constant threat of Indians (who are depicted as far from noble), wild animals, the weather – it was a hostile world. Yet it’s the world the mountain men chose, with no personal gain in mind. Populated places were alien to them. That’s not to say they were solitary – they usually traveled in small groups, partly for protection. Boone Caudill, the novel’s main character, makes two friendships that last for many years. Jim Deakins is a philosopher with a humorist’s bent, old Dick Summers is a teller of yarns; both contribute rich, colorful dialogue (Boone uses words sparingly). The Big Sky is a tragedy on several levels. The Native American culture begins its disintegration, the great buffalo herds start to dwindle, the pure and wild land sees the arrival of settlers. But before all that comes to completion, Boone – who’s too hard, too unflinching – will alienate himself forever from the only world he can live in. We understand what makes this deeply flawed man what he becomes, though we shrink from his decisions and actions. When I first read The Big Sky as a teenager I thought it was a great novel. I still do. 5

End of the Road – John Barth

I found the ending of this novel to be very disturbing, and to elicit such a response Barth deserves credit. Mostly the novel resides in the realm of the bizarre. Jacob suffers from an inability to make decisions. A doctor spots him sitting in the same spot, motionless, in a train station on consecutive days, and Jacob enters his therapy (the nameless doctor’s speciality is nihilistic paralysis). Part of Jacob’s therapy leads him to a job at a State Teachers College where he meets another teacher, Joe Morgan, and his wife Rennie. This couple share a marriage based on a highly rigorous dedication to authenticity. All these elements are buried in convoluted intellectual verbiage. And they’re unconvincing. Indecisive Jacob constantly makes decisions, and the authenticity Joe imposes on Rennie (once with a punch on the jaw that knocks her out – simply because she continually apologizes) struck me as insane. At one point Rennie says “I think all our troubles comes from thinking too much and talking too much.” My response was: Exactly! So why did I read the book, why did I get emotionally involved? Partly because for long stretches it was intelligible and inventive, even stimulating. And partly because I grew to care about Rennie. She bears a good deal of responsibility for what befalls her, but if she never met Joe and Jacob she could have led a normal life. Road is early Barth – before he started writing 800 page postmodernistic blockbusters. It’s strong stuff. 4

S. S. San Pedro – James Gould Cozzens

This odd little novel takes place entirely aboard a ship sailing from New York to Argentina. Besides 172 passengers and a full crew, it’s loaded with cargo (cars, cash registers, machine guns, cotton shirts, children’s toys, a million dollars in gold, etc.). We begin in port, where a doctor who has been seeing the captain is about to leave. This doctor, so weird looking as to cause people to recoil, asks for a tour of the ship, and this task is assigned to a senior officer, Anthony Bradell. At one point the doctor makes an offhand remark: “But you do not float quite level, do you?” Bradell will remember these words near the end of the book, when the ship is going through the final agonizing stages of sinking. He will also remember that the doctor, when describing the captain’s condition, says, “People grow old, Mr. Bradell. They break down, they wear out.” This turns out to be true: the captain cannot make decisions, though continuing to demand that he be obeyed. What makes the book odd is the way it’s told. There’s a sense of detachment. With a single exception (and that’s a brief one) we see things only from the perspective of various members of the crew. And though they diligently struggle on, they recognize their inadequacy: the uncaring, devouring sea will have its way. This is early Cozzens – before he, like Barth, expanded his scope. Which was unfortunate. He did his best work when he was short and concise. 4

The Postman Always Rings Twice – James M. Cain

What a disappointment! I can forgive myself for once liking this crime novel, for I was probably in my twenties when I first read it, and its serving of sadomasochistic sex and tough guy action must have impressed me. Now it seems fake and ridiculous (Cora’s “Bite me! Bite me!” made me cringe in embarrassment). The occasional musings by Frank of a religious nature are corny (looking in Cora’s eyes “was like being in church”). Not even the plot, involving the murder of Cora’s “greasy” Greek husband, is convincing. Like the attempts to kill him, the book is an ill-conceived mess. Yet on publication in 1934 it was a huge hit with the public and the intelligentsia (well, some of them). It gained praise from big name critics (Edmund Wilson) and writers (Albert Camus). Dorothy Parker claimed it was a love story; how a cynic like her could have found any love on these pages is beyond me. The Modern Library included it in its list of the one hundred greatest novels of the 20th Century; there are many movie versions, and even an opera. Am I missing something? The terse dialogue and minimalistic approach may have been innovative at the time. Yet even with those virtues, the plot drags on when Cain tries to explain things at length. Maybe the harshness of this review stems from the fact that I’ve actually recommended this book to people. 1 (Delete)

Reviews from the past

Immortality - Milan Kundera (Czech)

Kundera isn’t a novelist. He’s a thinker whose writing serves as a forum for his ideas. He has attained such eminence in the literary world that he can do whatever he wants; this shapeless grab bag of a book is what I’ll call philoso-fiction. In it the author plays a role, as does Goethe and other real-life figures from the past. The fictional modern-day characters are subordinate to Kundera’s larger aims, so they aren’t fully-developed. Free rein can liberate or lead to self-indulgence, or it can do both. Immortality may offer up a unique potpourri for the intellect, but it lost its luster for me (and it did have luster for a while). The overall perspective on human nature is a cynical one. An example: a woman is given the choice (it’s one or the other) of spending the next life with her husband of many years or of never meeting him again; her answer is “We prefer never to meet again.” (She phrases it as “we” because her husband is sitting next to her.) The point being made (with Kundera everything has a point) is that her love is an illusion, and with her answer she’s made to face that fact. Despite invigorating moments, I grew weary. The fictional side wasn’t holding up, and ideas that were intriguing and insightful were examined so rigorously that the freshness was leeched out of them. Plus I had my fill of Goethe; when he reappeared at the beginning of Part Four I called it quits. I did so with absolutely no curiosity, no regrets. I just wanted class to be over. (4 other books by this author reviewed)

Loving - Henry Green

What strikes one immediately is the quirky rhythm of the prose. I don’t think it can be replicated, for to do so a writer would have to try. I don’t think Green tried; he was transcribing onto the page the way he thought. He wasn’t showing off, nor was he trying to be difficult. Reading him is difficult only if you’re inattentive. If you’re alert you get into the flow, and once there you’re able to savor the humor and pathos. About 70% of the novel is dialogue – brilliant dialogue in which the many diverse personalities display their essential natures. As for plot, Green’s subject matter is the mundane (he wrote that “simply everything has supreme importance, if it happens”). The setting is an Irish castle during World War II. We follow the maneuvering among servants and masters (though the servants, being more colorful, are given by far the most space). Throughout Loving there’s an awareness of how conflicted a matter love is. This is most evident in the last words: “ . . . they were married and lived happily ever after.” Those words are an unabashed rejection of the truth; Green knew that life couldn’t be wrapped up with a pretty bow. But he also knew life’s many-faceted richness, and in capturing that richness he produced one of those rare works that makes you see the world in a fresh new way. * (4)

Sappho - Alphonse Daudet (French)

“Come, look at me. I like the colour of your eyes. What’s your name?” So the novel opens, with Fanny Legrand (who had posed for a statue of Sappho and was known in some circles by that name) approaching a much younger man. This encounter takes place at a masquerade ball held at the studio of a rich Parisian. Fanny spends the night with Jean, and so begins their five year affair. This is no gauzy romance about life in bohemian Paris of the 1800s. Courtesans are not glamorized, a la Dumas’s Camille; Daudet portrays them as nothing more than depraved whores. Fanny, however, is not of their ilk. She has a vulgar side and her past is littered with a long string of lovers, but she has retained a core of decency. Her decency makes her formidable; she can’t be easily dismissed. A clue to what the author is up to is found in his dedication: “For my sons when they are twenty.” What he gives his sons is a withering cautionary tale about the ensnarements of passionate love. I can’t embark on a description of the plot – it’s too full of emotional twists and turns – but all can be summed up in that first night, when Jean brings Fanny to his hotel. His room is on the fourth floor, and he takes her in his arms “with the lovely fierce energy of youth” and carries her up the stairs. The second flight “was longer, less delightful.” When he finally staggers to the fourth floor Fanny had become “some heavy and dreadful thing that was stifling him.” She says, “So soon?” and he thinks, “At last!” Yet he’s never able to come to “At last” in reality. As I followed the course of their relationship I reached the point where even the word “love” had become suspect. Yet the confusion and conflict I felt accurately depict Jean’s state of mind. This is not a novel which gives the reader solace; we can understand Fanny and Jean, but we can’t sympathize with them. They’re both right, they’re both wrong, they both deserve what they get. *

Seize the Day - Saul Bellow

What a wordsmith Bellow was! His writing is both smooth and sumptuous, grounded and imaginative. But a novel succeeds or fails on character and plot. In the course of one day (a day fraught with crises) Tommy Wilhelm’s guts are spread out before us. Perhaps this serving of Wilhelm is too rich – he’s like a dish fancied up with so many sauces that the palate becomes confused. As Tommy floundered about in a cascade of emotions I became increasingly detached. In a three character book, the father was the only person I could relate to; at least I could draw a bead on who and what he was. Tamkin, on the other hand, was way too slippery a concoction. For a long stretch in the middle of the book – seventeen pages – he holds forth on matters like the “real soul” and the “pretender soul.” When Tamkin gives Tommy a poem he wrote about Mechanism vs Functionalism, Tommy says to himself, “What kind of mishmash, claptrap is this? . . . What does he give me this for? What’s the purpose? Is it a deliberate test? Does he want to mix me up? He’s already got me mixed up completely.” Tommy could be complaining about Saul Bellow. It cannot be wisdom that Tamkin is spouting (most likely he’s a con man); why, then, did Bellow dedicate a good chunk of this 115 page novel to “claptrap”? Things end in a torrent of tears from Tommy: “. . . they were pouring out and convulsed his body, bowing his shoulders, twisting his face, crippling the very hands with which he held the handkerchief.” This spectacle of grief failed to move me; like his hardhearted father, I had my fill of Tommy and his problems. (1)

Re-reads

Momento Mori – Muriel Spark

Spark’s assemblage of mostly upper crust aged folk receive phone calls from an anonymous source that simply says “Remember you must die.” And they do die; most of those that don’t expire in the course of the novel are summarily put to rest in the last two pages. But this is not a dark book; it’s entertaining in a spirited way, and has a mordant humor. The writing is pretty much perfect, particularly the dialogue in the Maud Long Ward where the “Grannies” without money are housed. It made for enjoyable reading, though I felt that there should be a significant point. The only thing I can come up with is that Spark was showing people nearing death carrying on in the same petty ways they did all their lives. For example, wills play a large role, and are often changed (in one case, twenty-six times), based on shifting grudges and resentments. And the two most despicable characters wind up as major beneficiaries. Spark was only forty-one when she wrote this novel, and had, five years previously, converted to Catholicism – something that, she claims, greatly affected her writing (in Catholicism Death is the first of the Four Last Things to be remembered). While her characters on death’s doorstep don’t become wiser or more compassionate, neither, it seems, did Spark. When she died at age eighty-eight her will created a controversy. She and her son (an only child) had long ago broken off relations, and in her will she left him nothing. A final expression of spite? Though Mori comes close to a 4, I’m giving it a 3.

Stamboul Train – Graham Greene

Greene considered this“thriller” to be one of his “entertainments” (as opposed to his serious work, which usually had a religious theme). Problem is, it’s not very thrilling or entertaining. What succeeds is the depiction of the murky and ominous political atmosphere prevailing in Europe in the early 1930s (when the book was written). There are also some interesting characters in interesting situations, but most are not fully developed – or, in some cases, pretty much abandoned. Greene’s tendency was to ponder over weighty intellectual matters, which is anathema to a thriller. Too often I found tedium setting in. Anyway. . . One character, a businessman named Myatt, is Jewish – at times he’s simply referred to as “the Jew.” People can spot him as a Jew at first sight, and in many cases their reactions are highly negative. He seems somewhat stereotypical (eg., he’s “greasy”). He’s not a bad person – he acts generously toward Cora, a showgirl, to the point where she offers up her virginity to him. He also makes an aborted attempt to save her from peril. But at the end he’s forgotten her and his predominant interest is the closing of a business deal. Just like a Jew, right? Since I mentioned Cora (the virginal showgirl), she’s supposed to garner our sympathy, but she warrants a single summing-up word: unconvincing. I’m giving this novel a weak 2. (delete)

Rosemary’s Baby – Ira Levin

A book should be judged by how well it succeeds at what it attempts, and Levin has succeeded in writing a horror story that’s compelling and convincing. It’s done with an intelligent efficiency – the plot unfolds with momentum, and there’s not a boring page. Every character comes across clearly, every situation is constructed with logic. This is, simply put, damn good writing. Levin stated that he didn’t believe in the devil, and neither do I. So how can a book in which the Devil does exist be credible? Well, in a sense it isn’t. But I found Rosemary to be real and appealing, so I cared about the situation she becomes enmeshed in. To me the horror is the way people use her – evil exists in people. The worst of the lot is her husband; while the others act out of a belief, he sells Rosemary to advance his acting career. Her aloneness comes across with force, and at the end she’s emotionally and mentally broken. Roman Polanski did an excellent job of adapting this story to the screen. Many of Levin’s novels were made into movies because they’re so cinematic – that is, they embed real people in a fascinating plot that moves. 5

Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont – Elizabeth Taylor

This novel is the best of all the books I’ve reread so far. There’s one primary reason: it got to me emotionally. It did so in a quiet way – no fireworks go off in this story of an elderly lady who takes up residence at a hotel that has a few permanent guests (all of whom are also elderly). The writing is perfect in a straightforward, unembellished way, but what matters are the insights into age (or, more correctly, the human condition) that are imbedded in the story. These insights are simple, but how seldom are they presented so clearly. If you want to know about the feelings of those near the end of life – a difficult stage, particularly for the ones who are alone – this book will show you. And it will tell you, even if you’re young, something about yourself. It isn’t depressing or dark; it has an engaging plot, and a host of characters you’ll get to know (and whose minds you sometime enter). Of course, Laura Palfrey is foremost, but there’s a young man who is very strong. We can understand why Laura develops feelings for Ludo. It’s not sexual love, but one based on an attraction to a person who is kind, handsome, lively, funny (“kind” comes first). A caring love. Anyway: read this book – it’s one of the few that really matter. As an author Elizabeth Taylor was burdened by her name’s similarity to that of some actress. Palfrey was nominated for the Booker Prize in 1971; Saul Bellow was one of the judges, and he dismissed it as “a tinkling tea cup novel . . . not serious stuff.” It’s an ignorant statement; there are no tinkling tea cups, and my entire review addresses the book’s serious nature. Maybe the lack of pretentiousness turned Bellow off. (V. S. Naipaul's In a Free State would win the award that year.) Taylor was fifty-nine when she wrote Palfrey, and she died five years later. 5

Re-reads

White Noise – Don DeLillo

I can understand how my younger self (how much younger?) was impressed by this novel’s inventiveness and energy and originality. All of those virtues are indeed present. But on this reading I didn’t buy into much of what DeLillo doles out. He tackles Big Issues, but he fails to succeed in saying anything that meant much to me. As for the major issue of Death – fear of it – I was never convinced that the characters were feeling dread. Instead of imparting that emotion, what we get are long stretches of esoteric verbiage. Though seemingly on a high intellectual plane, I found it to be a lot of white noise. And – if DeLillo is so intelligent – how do we account for the book’s silly shootout ending? His considerable talent is used best in the down-to-earth section concerning the evacuation (due to a toxic cloud) of the Gladney family to a Boy Scout camp. And there’s humor in the book, some good portrayals (I especially liked eleven-year-old Denise), plenty of linguistic vitality. But I think my younger self believed that DeLillo was insightful, even profound. Many critics felt this way, as did those on the committee that gives out the National Book Award. DeLillo was also a believer: he would continue on an elevated track rather than a down-to-earth one. I’m giving the book a 3 for its good points, but I’m tempted to drop it to a 2 for the bad ones.

Murder for Profit – Willam Bolitho

I only read the first section – about the murders committed by William Burke – and couldn’t go on (there are five other mass murderers studied). Not that it wasn’t done well – the problem is the reverse: It was done too well. When younger, I must have had a stronger stomach for an examination of brutality. In Edinburgh, Scotland in the mid-1800s there was a need for corpses for scientific study. Body snatchers dug up fresh graves and sold the remains to doctors. Burke hit on an idea: why bother with the digging? Why not just lure people off the teeming streets, kill them and sell the bodies? They had a willing (and generous) buyer in the esteemed Dr. Knox. Burke didn’t act on his own: he had an accomplice in Hare, and the wives of both men were participants. Bolitho examines the psychology of this grisly bunch (particularly Burke), and the manner in which matters progressed from that initial idea to a thriving business (we’ll never know how many victims there were). The setting in of boldness in their actions ultimately led to their downfall. But only Burke faced the gallows. Scottish law allowed Hare and the women to go free. As for Knox – who knew he was receiving the victims of murder – he was too high up socially to be punished (though in the mind of the public he was disgraced, and he lost everything). There’s no explicit gore in this account, but the horror of the acts come across with a disturbing power. The writing is elegant, though often intricately constructed. I found myself rereading a sentence over and over, trying to decipher the meaning. Maybe, when I was younger (and sharper), I didn’t face this difficulty. In the first paragraph of the Burke section Bolitho points out that mass murder has always been a part of history, carried out by leaders as they accumulated wealth and power, built empires. I’m giving this book a 4 because the little I read got to me in a visceral way.

The Vendor of Sweets – R. K. Narayan

Narayan was a storyteller, no small virtue in a novelist. He could engage a reader, carry him along with ease. His prose is smooth – no bumps. But, more importantly, the characters and situation he creates are interesting. Nothing bizarre about either; rather, they’re quite relatable (even though the setting is India, and contains elements foreign to western sensibilities). A widowed man, Jagan, desires peace and contentment, but those goals are undermined by the behavior of his errant son. He’s glad when the boy heads off to America. But Mali returns with a wife (actually it turns out that they aren’t married ) and an idea of making a fortune off a novel-writing machine. He pressures his father to invest a large sum of money in this plan. That the son shows no love or even respect for his father – he sees him merely as a source of funds – stuck me as strange. Was Jagan lacking in some way in how he brought the boy up? We’ll never know the roots of what went wrong in the relationship, but I didn’t find that to be a problem. The indeterminate ending, with Jagan making a drastic life choice that may (or may not) give him the serenity he desires, was also acceptable to me – even right. After all, loose ends prevail in life, and there’s no need to neatly tie them up. At least, that’s the terms that Narayan is able to establish. This novel rates a solid 4.

A Mother in History – Jean Stafford

This is an account of a three day interview Stafford conducted with the mother of Lee Harvey Oswald. After sections appeared in McCall’s magazine, it came out in book form two years after the assassination of President Kennedy. Maybe I read it then. Why did I consider the book worthy? This time around I see absolutely no value in it. It’s a lazy effort, devoid of substance or insight, written merely for an easy buck. Since only one interview was tape recorded, and Stafford recreates (at length) what Mrs. Oswald says, how much is a true transcription of her words? What we get in Stafford’s portrayal is a woman spouting disjointed conspiracy theories. An addled, embattled woman who feels that she – her perceptions regarding her son and what occurred – are being ignored. But let me pose a few questions: Who among you believe that Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone assassin, acting on his own, with no backing? That Oswald’s claim, after his arrest, that he wouldn’t be a “patsy,” had no basis? That Jack Ruby killed him solely because he was distraught over the death of Kennedy? That the conclusions in the Warren Commission Report are fully valid? Or do you believe that the truth of what happened on that November day in Dallas will never be revealed? Mrs. Oswald had a tough, hardscrabble life. The events involving her son must have been emotionally crushing. My resentment toward Stafford has to do with her attitude toward the woman – who amused and bored her. Her asides are full of sarcasm, ridicule, disdain. Whatever Mrs, Oswald’s faults may be, Stafford’s fault lies in her lack of sympathy, pity, understanding. This is not a fair account of a mother in history. It’s a cruel hatchet job, and thus worthless. (Delete)

Re-reads
Quartet in Autumn – Barbara Pym
Authors usually choose to write about interesting people in interesting situations. But this novel follows the “uninteresting” lives of four “uninteresting” people. Two men, two women work together in an office (what they do – something clerical – is not important enough to be even mentioned). They have no contact with one another outside work. They are all elderly, all unmarried (though one is a widower). They lead “nothing” lives in that nothing much happens to them. All these quotation marks are there because this quartet is interesting. Lives are never made up of nothing. Solitary people have dimensions, and their situation, their concerns, though maybe not dramatic, are important. The two events that are crucial are the retirement of the women and the subsequent death of one of them. This upsetting of the long status quo causes ripples. Not waves, but ripples. Pym, who never married, wrote this novel during the fifteen years in which she couldn’t get anything published; one of her characters has had a mastectomy, as did Pym. So, when she wrote Quartet, she was facing end of life concerns. Yet she keeps a distance. She does not push for the reader’s sympathy; the four people have their good and not-so-good points. And there is much quiet humor in the book. It’s an admirable work. This quartet in the autumn of their lives mattered to me.

The Feud – Thomas Berger
A man in a hardware store is asked to get rid of the cigar in his mouth; he responds by saying that it’s unlighted; a dispute ensues. This matter could easily be settled between reasonable men, but reason does not rule in the world Berger creates. As things spiral out of control, we could be witnessing a comedy of very bad behavior. It is funny, and makes for highly enjoyable reading, but I began to see that most of the participants in such behavior are actually not that unlike ordinary people, who keep in check – most of the time – emotions or tendencies that are given free rein by the denizens of the two feuding towns. And aren’t we all guilty of such faults as callousness and greed? Some extreme cases exist, and play a crucial role in the unfolding of events: Reverton has a need to be important, with the aid of his trusty revolver; a cop, Harvey Yelton, gives new dimensions to the word “corrupt”; Junior is vicious to the bone. And then there’s Bernice, a study in sexual and ethical amorality. But Berger includes some quite decent souls, particularly two teenage brothers. One of the boys is Tony, and his infatuation with Eva is especially interesting. Though she has the body of a woman, it turns out that she’s thirteen and has the mentality of a six-year-old; the slow dawning on Tony of her emotional deficiency is handled beautifully (he decides not to run off to Canada with her). A lot is handled beautifully in this novel. I was left feeling I had been given a pessimistic look at human nature, artfully disguised as a romp.

Starting Over – Dan Wakefield
I can’t fathom what I saw of value, at any point of my life, in this chronicle of Phil Potter’s sex life in the swinging 70’s. It’s devoid of the humor it aspires to – all it doles out is smarminess, couched in literary trappings. The women are without moral scruples, and they use the F-word as freely as Potter does. Maybe once I didn’t object to these elements as strongly as I do now, but how could I accept the lack of depth in the characterization of Phil? All there is to him are erections (which Wakefield lovingly describes) and a drinking problem. This novel’s presence on my Most Meaningful Books list is an embarrassment, and it will be removed post haste. Note: Things are now occurring in real time. I just found that it wasn’t on the list. Thank goodness! – I wasn’t an idiot. I had the book in my library (which is supposed to contain only “keepers”), so I assumed it was a MMB. I did have a review posted of another Wakefield book, which I was highly critical of and couldn’t finish. Out of warped sense of duty I did finish this one.

Confidence Africaine – Roger Martin du Gard (French)
Another bungle on my part. I’m supposed to re-read only books that I never reviewed. But, when I was almost done with this story, I found that I had reviewed it (you can find that review under “Roger” in the Labels section). In it I wrote about the ending: “The inner story is hidden, but we sense it lurking in the shadows. On the last page, in the last paragraph, the author goes into those shadows; in this powerful (and artful, passionate) moment I felt, forcefully, the ugliness coiled at the heart of the matter.” Here’s my problem: I’ve reread the ending – that last paragraph – at least seven times and I can’t fathom how it elicited my previous reaction. Its significance just isn’t there for me. What did I miss? (Or was there anything to miss?) Maybe I need to read this whole story over again. Because, as is, it’s interesting and well-written, but it needs that strong ending to raise it above the merely good.

The Postman – Roger Martin du Gard (French)
I thought Roger deserved another look (this outing by him I didn’t review). It’s a short novel in which a postman makes his mail deliveries, and in doing so we get a tour of a French village – one you never want to visit. Everyone is either morally deficient (including the postman, who, for beginners, steams open letters that seem to be of interest) or sad cases. The book reveals all sorts of vices and unhappiness, and its unadorned prose is efficient to the point of excellence (no wasted words: if someone’s appearance is described it serves to establish their character and situation). The kind of acidic approach the author utilizes has its fascination, though one wonders how he got to be so cynical about human nature. In the last dozen pages the detached tone is replaced by the personal musings of secondary characters, which is a misstep. Martin du Gard should have should have stuck with the postman and his wily amorality.
End of re-reads

Endgame – Frank Brady
Those who recognize the name Bobby Fischer probably recall the famous 1972 chess match that took place in Iceland between Fischer and the Russian Boris Spassky. Russia had long held hegemony in the chess world, but Fischer’s victory – he became World Champion – placed America on top. It was a front page event, aided by the fact that Fischer, at age twenty-nine, was quite handsome. He became a celebrity, appearing often on TV. But what kind of person was Bobby Fischer? I sensed that Brady – who knew him – overcame a reluctance to reveal facts about his character that are alienating. I know I was alienated; I came to dislike the man. He was fervently (to use a mild modifier) against Jews – even though both of his parents were Jewish. Also an object of his wrath was America, and when the Twin Towers went down he expressed jubilation. He took every opportunity to vocally (or in writing) espouse the evil of his enemies and the greatness of his heroes. One of those heroes was Adolph Hitler (in Bobby’s thinking the death camps never existed). Besides these odious opinions, on a personal basis he had an overriding sense of entitlement; things had to be his way. He was monumentally selfish, ungrateful, judgmental; if someone who had done many favors for him over the years committed one small act he objected to, that person was dead to him. He can be excused, at least in part, because of his obvious mental illness. This book presents a picture of the obsessive and restricting psychology of a chess genius. When Bobby was seven the game had become his predominant pursuit, which is not conducive to a normal life (he also, as a child, mostly associated with older men). But an aberrant personality does not excuse ugly ideas and callous behavior. Brady often refers to Fischer as the greatest chess player the world has seen. This claim is unsupported. At times he was brilliant, but his record is erratic. He played few major matches (none at all for twenty years), and many ended in draws or losses. Even his victory over Spassky is suspect. With his delays, demands, disruptions, and dramatics Fischer created an atmosphere of chaos in their Iceland match. He thrived on chaos, but how did it effect his opponent? Bobby Fischer died young – age sixty-four – which, Brady points out, is the number of squares on a chess board.

Re-reads

Pan – Knut Hamsun (Norwegian)

This novel is strange and perplexing. Not that it’s written in an obscure way – the prose is as clear as could be. But the main character —Thomas Glahn, whose journal we’re reading – feels and acts in ways that are inexplicable. He’s been living with his dog Aesop in a hut by an immense forest for two years, and his emotional bond with nature is extreme; it affects him in a deep, even rapturous way. But then he falls in love with a young woman – Edvarda – and, again, his feelings toward her are extreme. In the beginning she responds, but then she begins to withhold, then to give a bit. He’s emotionally pulled one way and then the other. The merest slight by her will cause him to go overboard, and when he’s angry he’ll do crazy things (such as shoot himself in the foot). The stage is set for tragedy – the “gift” that Glahn gives Edvarda when he leaves is truly shocking. Hamsun may have been responding to the glamorization in fiction of outsize emotions. He showed such emotions as being devoid of glamour, but rather a manifestation of a consuming madness.

The Job Hunter – Allen R. Dodd

This “Diary of a Lost Year” follows the travails of a NYC ad executive who finds himself out of a job. It’s not due to any lack on his part – in the course of this book he emerges as intelligent, creative, hard-working. But, due to some shifting in the upper ranks of the big corporation he works for, he’s deemed  expendable. This is a very readable account of his search for a position that corresponds to his experience and salary (though his expectations steadily lower). His search is actually a job in itself – he tells his wife that he labors ten hours a day to be a bum: pounding the pavement, eating at automats, making calls to prospective employers from public telephone booths. Corporate America can be a mean world for those looked upon as outsiders – he encounters a lot of callousness. What kindness and sympathy he finds comes from a cadre of job seekers like himself. This book first appeared in 1962 as articles written for a trade journal called Printers’ Ink, and it no doubt was read with a sense of trepidation. At the end our narrator finds a job, but not at the level (or salary) he was used to. Still, his new employers seem like decent, fair-minded people. His life style drops quite a few notches, but that’s OK (he realizes he had been living beyond his means). Though he’s found security, he’s left with a lingering suspicion – things are good now, but what if . . .

The Day of the Locust – Nathanael West

The setting of this fever nightmare is the underbelly of Hollywood, a place of cheap artifice populated by weirdos, grotesques, losers. Written 1939, it’s rough stuff even by today’s standards. Though today’s standards don’t apply, for the force of West’s vision is his own, and his skill is not to be duplicated. Tod, the main character, is fairly stable, though his sexual obsession with Faye is sick (a fact he fully comprehends). Faye, an aspiring actress, is a casually amoral user, and has an effect on every man she comes in contact with (if put on the screen – assuming her allure would transfer – she could be a sensation). Memorable characters swarm about the pages – and are often quite funny: Harry, the aging vaudevillian, who can’t stop doing routines even on his death bed; Abe, the pugnacious dwarf, always ready to dispense verbal or physical abuse. The book made me wonder about West’s state of mind. Though he doesn’t use overt gore or vulgarity, he seems to have a to-hell-with-it attitude, and he respects no limits of propriety. Was it written in anger, bitterness? This author of great talent received no financial compensation for his first three novels, and was stuck in Hollywood doing scripts for B- westerns. He died in a car accident shortly after the publication of Locust. He was 37 years old.

The Monkey’s Wrench – Primo Levi (Italian)

Faussone is a rigger – a mechanic who can do everything from weld a seam to operate a crane (and anything in between). This man with minimal schooling is so good at building things that he’s called to faraway lands (Africa, India, Russia) to work on the construction of a bridge or a tower. He tells of his projects to someone who is, clearly, Primo Levi. Faussone is a likeable and entertaining guy – a real individual emerges (though, being non-mechanical, I couldn’t understand most of the work he was describing). Levi is making a point: manual labor (as opposed to purely intellectual pursuits) can require a high degree of intelligence and creativity. He’s a chemist, and he tells one story in which he discovers the problem in some paint his company has sold. What Levi is contemplating in this book is abandoning his chemist job and becoming a full-time writer. Faussone responds with these words: “Excuse me for saying so, but if I was in your shoes, I’d give it some careful thought.” It’s better, he goes on, to do things with your hands; you can see your success, and, if you fail, you can fix it. This was good advice – which, of course, Levi was giving himself through his character. Levi, as writer, was not a novelist (Wrench, though classified as fiction, has no plot). What he wrote about in most of his books were his experiences as a prisoner at Auschwitz. Though these books have value as a testimonial, they made him relive an emotionally unhealthy subject.