Lawd Today – Richard Wright

This was Wright’s first novel, written (and worked on) when he was in his middle to late twenties. But it wasn’t published until after his death. And when it did see the light of day (in 1963), the reaction from the critics was mostly negative. The book has flaws a more experienced writer would avoid, the most important being that many scenes go on too long. The graphic language and the raw depiction of sex would have caused it to run into censorship problems in the thirties. Maybe the older Wright felt it wasn’t worth bothering with. As for the critics, I believe they expected a more politically correct approach to the subject of race. Lawd Today covers one day in the life of Jacob Jackson, a post office employee in depression-era Chicago. It begins when he wakes up from a dream of futility and ends when he passes out in a drunken stupor. Wright presents a black man embodying all the stereotypical faults a virulent white racist might assign to him (after waking up Jacob’s first act is to beat his wife, after which he goes through a long ritual of straightening his hair). In the beginning I thought that Wright was having a lot of fun: here’s what you whites think we’re like – violent, dumb, irresponsible, morally deficient. The thing is, Jacobs do exist, and Wright knew this. And even they have valid grievances. I wound up relating to this inglorious man living in a world in which he’s relegated to second (or, in many places, third) class citizenship. The novel flows, it has humor and a freewheeling rambunctiousness, characters come alive (mostly through what they say). The unpolished prose is just right for its subject. We get a taste of Chicago in the thirties, and of the soul-crushing job of a mail sorter (a job that Wright held). There’s a successful kaleidoscopic aspect which may have been borrowed from Dos Passos’s USA trilogy. All in all, my belief is that this novel deserves serious consideration.

Note Found in a Bottle – Susan Cheever

I read this memoir solely because the author was the daughter of a famous author, and the subject was her alcoholism. Susan Cheever has made a cottage industry from her family (books about her father and mother) and her dysfunctional life (another book is about her sex addiction.). Note is short, written simply, and not very interesting. By the end I didn’t think I knew Susan, and I believe the reason is that she doesn’t know herself. Though she presents blunt facts, there’s evasiveness regarding motivation; basically, she believes that her upbringing and her resultant depression made her act in a trashy way. At the end (when she’s in her fifties) she writes that “I live a quiet life now.” Her wild days are behind her. She has found God and sobriety and, I suppose, some moral compass. Also, love of her children. Did I like her and care about her? No. A flat No. There’s something boastful about her sexual exploits, mostly with married men. I don’t find endearing a line like “There were months when I sometimes slept with three men in one day.” (The kids were with a babysitter; and, on one occasion, she notices a lesion on her daughter’s neck – a sign of chicken pox – but she leaves with Raymond for the Riviera Hotel in Cuba anyway). Raymond, the most constant of the many men in her life, comes across as a crazily irresponsible alcoholic (Susan isn’t a crazy alcoholic; she just drinks a lot). The book is saturated with names of Important People. Were they pals of Susan for her personality and talent? I think that all the good things she got in life – jobs, publication – stemmed directly from the fact that she was John Cheever’s daughter. Anyway, the topper comes at the end, with two pages in which she thanks people who helped her. I counted over 130 names, including the likes of Richard Avedon, Cher, Fran Lebowitz, and John Updike. Is this supposed to be a joke? Or is it a sad commentary about fame and success in modern day America?

Growing Up – Russell Baker

I liked this memoir when Russell was a boy, observing others – mainly his mother (his father dies when he’s five), but also an assortment of uncles, aunts and a formidable grandmother. The uncles play a role because the Great Depression is under way, and money is an overriding problem. Although Elizabeth works at a succession of menial jobs she isn’t able financially to have her own home, so she boards with relatives. It’s interesting how open and generous her husband’s family members were in these stressful times; they made room. Not that this is a sugar-coated picture of life; there are problems, a sense of the tragic. We get a uniquely intimate look at the Depression when a successful businessman named Oluf becomes romantically interested in Elizabeth. Baker devotes an entire chapter to Oluf’s letters, and they’re quite touching. He slowly loses all his resources and his initial buoyancy sinks into despair; his final words, after he had asked Elizabeth not to write him anymore, are “I am lost and going and not interested in anything anymore.” So Elizabeth, approaching forty, sees her hopes for love and security vanish. She’s a forceful, determined woman, and places all her ambitions for success on her son (there are two younger daughters, one who is raised by relatives). The first half of the book has powerful writing that evokes emotion through understatement. The problem, for me, was that Russell grows up, and turns from an observer to someone who take an active role in the story. I wasn’t that interested in his school days, his military experiences, his efforts to lose his virginity, his meeting with his future wife. Baker tells about these events in a humorous vein, but he’s not a humorist; he can only play one note, as the hapless loser who somehow succeeds. Though I never disliked Russell, as an adult I just didn’t like him all that much. The mother fades into the background (as she must; he’s a grown man), but her faults seem to become a more pressing issue for Baker. I found the offhand way she’s depicted in the final chapter to be disappointing; I thought she deserved more than he gives her. And I was left wondering if he gave her less than she deserved in life. The thing with memoirs is that the reader passes judgments.

Addenda: I knew that I had read Growing Up before, but I didn’t recall, until minutes ago, that I had written a review of it in 2014. We reach the same conclusions, but arrive at them in different ways. You can decide which version is better. 

Growing Up - Russell Baker

For half the book Baker focuses not on himself but on his family. His father dies at the onset of the Great Depression, and he and his mother are forced to live with various uncles and aunts. The child/young boy’s growing up is depicted in terms of a growth in his understanding of the people around him. Though his indomitable but thwarted mother is the most vivid character, others – such as the hugely generous Uncle Allen and Aunt Pat – are strong presences. Then there’s Oluf, who carried on a courtship with Russell’s mother. In letters he wrote to her we see this lively, enterprising, optimistic man being broken in his struggle to find work. He ends his correspondence with Elizabeth (and disappears from her life) with the words “I am lost and going and not interested in anything anymore.” Baker’s use of these excerpts show him at his unobtrusive best. Unfortunately, the book weakens as he reaches his mid-teens and takes center stage. Teenagers and young men are not very likable creatures, nor are their crises of much interest. Baker assumes an attitude of humorous indulgence (in the case of his difficulty in losing his virginity, he portrays himself as a fumbling rube). But it’s a lumbering type of humor, and the prose – which once could deftly evoke emotions – is no more than what would be expected of a competent journalist.

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Mr. Darcy was a problem for me, one that never went away. For most of the book Austen presents him as a man whose sense of superiority is such that he has open disdain for those who don’t meet his lofty standards. He’s also a meddler; he uses every resource to separate his friend from a woman who he, Darcy, considers an inappropriate match. Since he displays little feeling for Elizabeth, when his proposal of marriage comes it’s a surprise (her “astonishment was beyond expression”); she rejects him and catalogues her reasons for actively disliking him. Yet they will marry, and this is due to nothing short of a metamorphosis in Darcy. Suddenly he engages in all sorts of kind, generous acts. We’re to take this as an indication of his feelings for Elizabeth, but to me it wasn’t Darcy doing these things; it was Austen stacking the deck in his favor. Does she succeed at making the two credible as lovers? I saw no warmth on either side. Darcy remains wooden, and though the same cannot be said of Elizabeth, her most passionate moment takes place when she first sees his estate; the splendor of the house and grounds is such that she feels “to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!” When her sister asks her how long she has loved Darcy, she answers, “I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley.” Her mother is enraptured by the marriage: “Oh! my sweetest Lizzie! how rich and how great you will be!” Her sentiments are not just those of a small-minded and greedy woman. In the society of the idle rich depicted in this book (no main character does a lick of work) people maneuver to be in the good graces of those who rank higher in wealth and status. The two worst toadies – Elizabeth’s mother and the fatuous Mr. Collins – are one-dimensional objects of Austen’s ridicule and disdain. Yet Elizabeth’s friend marries Mr. Collins for the financial security he can provide. And Elizabeth? After her marriage she plans to protect Darcy from the “mortification” of having to interact with “vulgar” people. She “looked forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley.”

Growing Up - Russell Baker
For half the book Baker focuses not on himself but on his family. His father dies at the onset of the Great Depression, and he and his mother are forced to live with various uncles and aunts. The child/young boy’s growing up is depicted in terms of a growth in his understanding of the people around him. Though his indomitable but thwarted mother is the most vivid character, others – such as the hugely generous Uncle Allen and Aunt Pat – are strong presences. Then there’s Oluf, who carried on a courtship with Russell’s mother. In letters he wrote to her we see this lively, enterprising, optimistic man being broken in his struggle to find work. He ends his correspondence with Elizabeth (and disappears from her life) with the words “I am lost and going and not interested in anything anymore.” Baker’s use of these excerpts show him at his unobtrusive best. Unfortunately, the book weakens as he reaches his mid-teens and takes center stage. Teenagers and young men are not very likable creatures, nor are their crises of much interest. Baker assumes an attitude of humorous indulgence (in the case of his difficulty in losing his virginity, he portrays himself as a fumbling rube). But it’s a lumbering type of humor, and the prose – which once could deftly evoke emotions – is no more than what would be expected of a competent journalist.

The Patriot - Evan S. Connell
In The Patriot Connell proves himself adept at writing a long, straightforward novel. One of his major accomplishments is to make clear what a life-altering experience military service is, and why so many veterans hold dear the memory of their war years and the relationships they formed during that time. The most important person for Melvin Isaacs is swaggering Sam Horne, who takes Melvin under his wing. Melvin’s name is one indication that this is an autobiographical work: with the change of a vowel and the omission of two consonants we get Evan. Melvin is presented as a fragmented person in whom the parts do not function together. He’s alive and real, but, like the perplexed Horne, we’re constantly asking, “Why the hell did you do that?” Embedded in the mostly realistic narrative are scenes that skew into the surreal. Melvin has a nightmarish interview with a Lieutenant Caravaggio, who is either insane or has some unfathomable agenda. In a doomed flight in a dilapidated plane, during which Melvin announces to the tower that he’s The Green Hornet, he seems insane. Throughout the novel there’s an underlying disjointedness, but when it moves into civilian life it becomes a shambles as Connell unsympathetically assigns Melvin to various roles (college student, abstract artist, husband). But even in this last section I never lost interest, and the final scene, with the father urgently talking about how to survive a nuclear attack, again shows how forceful and original a writer Connell can be. The Patriot should ultimately be judged by the ways it succeeds, because those successes are so distinctive. In the descriptions of flight we get it all: the smell of oil, the coughing, barking engine as the plane labors upward; then a bleak and gaseous silence, the miniature world as seen from the solarium of the cockpit. And there’s a seemingly innocuous visit to a Confederate museum in which an old lady who smells of vinegar and beer and has a bath towel around her head (“Washin’ my hair, men”) gives a tour of a house where a horrific battle had been fought. She closes her four page monologue by asking her guests to look down a stairwell where the bloodstains are still “as dark as midnight, men, and fearsome as ever.” *