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)

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

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

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

Some Buried Caesar - Rex Stout
Another excellent Nero Wolfe mystery. The breezy and amusing Archie is more interesting than the one-dimensional Wolfe, and it was wise of Stout to make him the first person narrator. Unlike many whodunits, no information is withheld from the reader and no improbable plot twists pop up at the end. Stout plays fair by providing us with the clues we need to solve the crime. The writing has a light, casual touch; Stout didn’t labor over these books, but Archie wouldn’t either. The rustic setting works nicely, the varied cast of characters come to life. Stout is especially good in his portrayals of women (Lily Rowan is a treat, sexy and fun). Though dealing with murder, Stout avoids gore and sleaziness. What we get in the Nero Wolfe series is sheer enjoyment. Of what worth is sheer enjoyment? I don’t believe a novel must aspire to greatness to have value. If it succeeds in what it sets out to do, it’s a success; if it fails, it’s a failure. Rex Stout – like Ian Fleming – succeeded to a high degree in what he attempted. Sometimes we simply need to be entertained.

Double Indemnity - James M. Cain
This was Cain’s second novel. Like The Postman Always Rings Twice, one of its virtues is sparseness (was Cain our first minimalist?). There are no long descriptions of people and places. And, really, do detailed descriptions matter to a reader? Don’t we simply forget them? Cain uses dialogue to move his plots along; emotions are conveyed with the fewest words possible. These two novels offer lessons in how to engage and hold a reader’s attention. Postman is better by far; it’s more visceral, the story line more efficient, the feelings of the two characters more convincing. In Indemnity I didn’t understand what motivated the narrator to embark on the murder scheme; I didn’t believe in his pure love for the daughter; the twists at the end were improbable. As for the last chapter – it goes beyond the unexpected into the truly weird; I wanted to reject it but found that the lunacy of the situation – in which Cain posits a fatal bond between the damned – had a perverse power.

The Defense - Vladimir Nabokov (Russian)
I previously wrote that “plot obfuscation and stylistic ornamentation are mostly just clutter.” When I used the qualifier “mostly” I was thinking of Nabokov. His plot twists are intriguing, his ornamentation is brilliant; they enrich his work. But he has to enrich a discernible plot and comprehensible characters. The Defense was a tricky undertaking, and that’s because the protagonist, who we first meet as a boy, is severely autistic (this was written in 1930, when autism was not widely recognized, yet Luzhin has all the symptoms). How far can you go in exploring the inner life of such a person? Luzhin is a chess genius; but chess, for him, leads to a destructive obsession. The novel shifts away from the black and white squares and delves into Luzhin’s relationship with a young woman. This woman is endowed (or burdened) with a hyper-compassionate nature. She initially displays a lighthearted interest in this very unusual man, but she inspires in him a blind devotion. It’s not blind in its completeness, but in its incomprehension; Luzhin cannot understand or even relate to another person. She, in turn, cannot leave someone so in need of her. The ending, in which madness prevails with a vengeance, flounders badly. This supports my belief that Nabokov didn’t know what to do with his peculiar character. Ornamentation and obfuscation are this novel’s main features, and they’re not enough.

Confessions of an Advertising Man - David Ogilvy
This is a book about business. It’s practical, thorough, well-organized, honest and intelligent. Ogilvy takes pride in producing work of superior quality, but his primary goal is the making of money, both for the clients he represents and for himself. He doesn’t shy away from depicting the ruthlessness of the world he operates in. He’s a taskmaster who expects much of his employees; if they don’t meet his standards, out they go. There’s a photograph of him on the front cover; his eyes are cold and hard. Young people considering a career in business should contemplate that gimlet gaze. His prose is clear, concise and lively, as would be expected of a good copywriter. He reveals, with surprising frankness, how advertisers go about persuading the public (or, put more bluntly, how they manipulate us); this is instructive – and cautionary. The book was written in 1963, and Ogilvy is prescient when he looks to the future. He finds the over-saturation of ads on TV to be objectionable and suggests government regulation. He sees danger in the unrestrained promotion of materialistic goods and values. He also believes that advertising should not be used in political campaigns. He would no doubt be appalled at the state of affairs today.

Serenade - James M. Cain
A mess. Cain even changes the terms he establishes with the reader. The story begins in Mexico; a typical Cain tough guy on the skids gets involved with a prostitute with a plan. Next thing we know the tough guy turns out to be a world famous opera star; he regains his voice and the book switches to the classical music scene in New York, with the prostitute relegated to the background. Next thing we know – and this is the most startling aspect for a Cain novel – the tough guy turns out to have a homosexual side. When the prostitute reemerges with a vengeance things get melodramatic, even ridiculous. So why did I read to the end? Cain’s writing has energy and conviction; he entertains. And it’s fascinating to watch the conventions of storytelling being tossed out the window of a speeding car.

Goodbye, Mr. Chips - James Hilton
Sometimes an author’s ambitions are modest, but he executes his plan perfectly. This is a small novel – small in size, small in subject (the life of a British schoolmaster). I had little interest in reading it, but it won me over, as it did millions of others. Hilton was wise in not elevating Mr. Chipping above his rightful place; he’s notable only for the highly-valued British trait of steadfastness. Hilton is skillful in the way he handles Chips’ short marriage (his wife and baby die in childbirth); though Kathie is sketched in, I felt her vibrancy. This is a sentimental novel, but it’s not maudlin. What Hilton gives us is a quiet but moving account of a quiet life. And how often – if it’s easy to do – is a reader moved? A last point of interest: Chips is never an object of pity; he is, despite the loss of Kathie, despite the unremarkable march of his days, a happy man.

Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides
This book has many strengths, but they’re mostly found in its first third, where the prose is inventive and engrossing and the characters – Desdemona and Lefty – appealing. There are flaws in this section: Eugenides doesn’t satisfactorily resolve dilemmas he creates (most notably the too-easy escape from a burning Smyrna); some of the plot twists are far-fetched, scenes run too long. Still, the strengths held up in the second third of the book, about the young Callie – another appealing character. I also liked the social history of Detroit that was woven into the narrative. But when Callie turns fourteen sex becomes the focus. In her relationship with the Obscure Object flaws became fissures that widened into cracks. With Cal on the run the novel crumbled. The plot twists turned preposterous, the prose overwrought and ragged. The emotional quandary of Callie/Cal was belabored to the point where it seemed forced and false. As for the issue of hermaphroditism, Eugenides provides a lot of clinical research, but he never makes it clear how the male and female sexual organs coexist and function. I’m not asking for sensationalism – just honesty. The story is narrated by 41-year-old Cal, and his budding romance is unconvincing and superfluous. Too bad – because Eugenides has talent.