The most enjoyable of my recent reading was the conclusion of my run through all of Jane Austen's published novels, which I've been rereading in conjunction with the course I taught on Austen and the political novel at the end of the eighteenth century this fall semester. Last month I mentioned Mansfield Park and Emma, and this month I had enormous fun with her last novel, Persuasion--but, as always, what can I possibly need to say about it here? Other than that, if you've not reread her recently, there's no time like the present.
I happened to see the Ang Lee-Emma Thompson movie version of Sense and Sensibility once again over the holidays, as well. It's not a bad movie--in fact, it's a good one--and yet I was surprised, seeing it in such close proximity to the experience of reading the book itself, by just how flat and pale it is compared to the novel. I wonder whether I would feel the same way, seeing it again now, about Persuasion--which I thought not only the most underrated but also far and away the best of the recent spate of Austen-based movies--and which I also continue to find the most moving of Austen's novels. (Well, all right, Pride and Prejudice is right up there, too . . . )
I find myself
wondering, every so often, about the ways in which American literature
gets taught--or not taught, as the case may be--by a people who
seem, on the whole, to find their own literature something of an
embarrassment. My father taught American literature and, although I never
studied it with him, I've been told that he was pretty good at it. But I
wouldn't know. A good boy, I chose, as my form of Oedipal
rebellion, to concentrate on English literature, instead. Take
that, Dad, I must have thought; or words to that effect. I
sometimes think that I've spent much of the rest of my life discovering
that he was right, after all. Just this week, as I write (somewhat
belatedly) in early January, I have read two novels by Edward
Eggleston. One, The Hoosier School-Master, is readily
available. It's an Indiana University Press paperback bearing a
1984 imprint date and an $8.95 pricetag, in a series called--are you ready
for this?--"The Library of Indiana Classics." Someone at my very own
university is teaching it--a historian, I am sorry to report,
rather than anyone who teaches whatever it is we now call
"literature." By the time I finished, some hours later--it
isn't a very long book!--I was a confirmed Egglestonian. This
novel, first published in 1871, starts off as if it were to be the tale of
a young man come into a rural Indiana school district around the year 1850
to crack some sense--and, if possible, a bit of eddication, as well--into
the thick skulls of the local turkeys, in conflict with whom his
culture will best their rustic bestiality. It's a good enough
start; but the book proves to be more (and less) than that. On the one
hand, it has a strong melodramatic element which you start off thinking
you're going to hate and which nonetheless proves to be interesting. On
the other, its characters are drawn in such starkly black-and-white terms
that you wonder how you can maintain any interest in them whatever. But
you do, and the book is interesting for a variety of reasons despite
itself. For one thing, it illuminates, in ways that I found helpful, how
a kind of rough-and-ready "muscular Christianity" helped form a
significant part of "the national character" early in American history.
True enough that Eggleston is reading muscular Christianity back
into the quarter-of-a-century-ago past; but it felt to me as if he gets
much of the ethos right anyway. For another, the book's constant
references to its setting as "the west"--Indiana?--proved a
salutary reminder of something I had until now only known at second-hand
(from Leslie Fiedler?), that the "old west" had a lot in common with the
new. Most of all, however, The Hoosier School-Master tells an
enjoyable story well. I was glad to have read it, glad enough so that, as
soon as I finished the book, I toddled back to the Library (not an
especially tricky matter, given where my office is) to dig up another of
Eggleston's novels. What I found was a novel called The Circuit
Rider (1874), and--unlike The Hoosier School-Master--it is
not readily available. I read it in a 1913 Scribner's reprint, not
in pretty condition--although "library reprint" editions may present you
with the text in somewhat less rebarbative physical format than that in
which I found it. Whatever its physical condition, this is a better
novel than The Hoosier School-Master (the first, and still the
best-known--whatever that means!--of all of Eggleston's works).
Like that book, The Circuit Rider also deals with the role of
Protestant Christianity in early American life. But now? You have never been a young Methodist preacher of the
olden time. You have never had over you a presiding elder who held your
fate in his hands; who, more than that, was the man appointed by the
church to be your godly counsellor. In the olden time especially,
presiding elders were generally leaders of men, the best and greatest men
that the early Methodist ministry afforded; greatest in the qualities most
prized in ecclesiastical organization--practical shrewdness, executive
force, and a piety of unction and lustre. How shall I make you understand
the weight which the words of such a man had when he thought it needful to
counsel or admonish a young preacher? (p. 229--I provided another brief
excerpt from this novel for the use of a class; it can be found here). It's probably
easy enough to understand something about America and Americans
without knowing any of this kind of stuff. And, for a
post-Christian American reader--or, as in my case, a non-Christian
one--knowing this stuff may seem, in any event, just about as enticing as
the thought of jumping into the Schuylkill in January. Well, maybe. But
this book taught me a lot about what people thought Christianity had done
to and for people on the American frontier and how it was thought to have
worked its wonders; and--for me, anyway--that's the sort of thing that
makes it easier to get something more than a merely intellectual sense of
the significance of evangelical Protestantism to American life. (And after
all, in case you haven't noticed, it is, even now, a "post-Christian
America" only for some of "us.") Eggleston's novel concerns two
young men on the Ohio frontier before the War of 1812. He takes them both,
although by different routes, through sin to conversion. Their conversions
lead them into the Methodist ministry and both become circuit riders in
various midwestern locations (for instance, Pottawottomie Creek, in "the
wilderness of Michigan" [p. 194]--although, in fact, the minister assigned
that circuit never reaches it). How their lives interact with those of the
people with whom they grew up and with the people they meet in the course
of their ministries, and the impact of their ministries upon them, is the
burden of Eggleston's novel, although it is also, as he tells us in a
preface, "from the first chapter to the last, . . . a love-story" (p.
vii). I won't say any more about the book: it too is a thoroughly
enjoyable story. I confess that I found it slightly disconcerting to
find in both books, one about 1850s Indiana, the other about 1800s Ohio,
the author's prefaces signed and dated from "Brooklyn"; but that
borough--then a city--is where Eggleston's own (temporary) ministry took
him. I hope he had something like the impact of his characters on the
spiritual lives of the real people in his care. No matter, now, of
course--except, perhaps, from a point of view able to consider matters
from a perspective more sub specie aeternitatis than I can attain.
I look forward to reading more Eggleston. And to pondering the apparently
superabundant richness of a literary culture that can consign such books
as his to the compost heap. For Christmas--which
non-Christians can also celebrate in post-Christian America--my sister
gave me a copy of Dava Sobel's bestselling book, Longitude:
The True Story of a Lone Genius Who Solved the Greatest Scientific Problem
of His Time--hey, is that a great eighteenth-century-style title
or what? (New York: Walker, 1995, and now available as a Penguin
paperback). Like The Hoosier School-Master, this proved to be
another book I swallowed whole--it is, however, very short--and I
recommend it with just as much pleasure. Its surprising sales suggest that
others have agreed with this view, as well. I
had one more experience of the same sort, this with a book I bought as a
New Year's present for someone else, then, at home, started to read . . .
and discovered (to my surprise, since this is "the sort of book which I
don't usually read," or so I thought) that I could not put down. It is a
somewhat longer (and far more depressing) book than anything I have
yet written about this month, but it is nonetheless one with so
many virtues that it, too, needs to be mentioned here. A bestseller for
a long time, the book is now available in paperback. But I happened to
bump into a remaindered copy of Richard Preston's The Hot Zone
(New York: Random House, 1994) in its hardcover edition for
$6.00--which is, as I recall, a bit less expensive than its
mass-market paperback version. Just in case you don't already know
about this book, it is a medical and military story (not fiction)
that details various encounters, most of them excruciatingly unpleasant,
between people and a virus called ebola. People do not normally
emerge from this encounter victorious. Instead, they die, at impressively
high rates, and, as an additional lagniappe, quite nastily. This virus
seems to be native to the same region of Africa in which HIV viruses used
to live, at least as Preston tells that tale; but in an era when
travel conditions are improving for people they are also improving for
viruses, and your average ebola seems able to gallivant about quite
successfully these days. The heart of Preston's cautionary tale concerns
the virus's experiences, together with those of many people who would
prefer it not to be there, outside Africa, in a place called Reston.
Reston is in Virginia. A suburb of Washington, DC, it is a location in
which an outbreak of ebola would prove fairly grim. Preston's book is
immensely readable, his tale fascinating, his warnings worth
pondering. The themes Preston deals with have,
of course, been dealt with before. I think most warmly of a 1949 novel I
read some years ago, Earth Abides, written by a professor of
English at Berkeley named George R. Stewart (and still available,
the last time I checked, as a mass-market paperback from Fawcett
for $4.95). Some forms of ebola succeed in killing 90% of the human beings
they invade: an ebola virus loose in Reston might, therefore, have left
this country with some twenty-five or so million inhabitants, a number
which in all probability might not have sufficed to maintain its
infrastructure--particularly since the impact of a pandemic of this sort
would not be confined by national borders. In 1949, Stewart knew nothing
of ebola; but his novel bases itself on a similar fictional premise. (I
suspect that, writing in 1949, his "disease" was a displacement for the
atom bomb.) The book contemplates a post-pandemic America where disease
has wiped out the vast majority of the population in little more than a
couple of weeks; and it asks what happens to "civilization" in this new
world. It is a wonderful book, if a bit depressing. (Berkeley's library
does not do well. Not at all.) Stewart's book is
not only wonderful, it is also a lot more scientifically
plausible--perhaps I mean "less scientifically implausible"?--than
P. D. James's unhappy excursion into this genre, The Children
of Men, a book I also read this month. (It's a vastly over-praised
1992 publication; I read a 1994 Warner mass-market
paperback.) People suddenly become sterile. Whatever will they do? You
will be relieved to know that life at Oxford continues, pretty much, on an
even keel, or at least it does so as viewed through the eyes--and pretty
dull eyes they are, too--of the history don through whom we get this
story, a Victorianist who is also the cousin of the person who has
ascended to the post of England's dictator "for the duration." No
Churchill he, that character is very much part of the problem, not the
solution. But what could be the solution, you ask? An end to
sterility, of course. And does the novel provide such a solution? you ask.
Silly reader. I read three books recently that relate to my ongoing
interest in America and the atom bomb. The first, a genially appalling
book, was written by two reporters for the Associated Press, Tad
Bartimus and Scott McCartney, Trinity's Children: Living Along
America's Nuclear Highway. Originally published in 1991,
the book remains available from the University of New Mexico Press
(1993), and is (I suppose) what falls these days under the rubric of
"investigative journalism." The authors basically take a long hike up
I-25, from El Paso to northern Wyoming, looking at what has happened to
the lives of people whom work on the bomb and later nuclear
industrialization intersected in some way or another. While, on the whole,
they are critical of what they see--as they should be--yet they never ask
central questions, such as, for one tiny example, what in the name of
heaven anyone in power thought he was doing while this world was being
created just east of the Rockies. So fearful were we that the Russians
would nuke America that we decided, as a preventative, to nuke it
ourselves instead. Always paragons of efficiency, we seem to have done a
good job. Peter Goin's Nuclear Landscapes (Johns Hopkins
University Press, 1991) is a landscape architect's view of the same
issues that Bartimus and McCartney investigate. His book consists mostly
of Goin's own photographs--its text is very slight--of exactly the places
his title makes you expect. The only surprise, for me, was that one
section is set in the Eniwetok Atoll, so it is not all "America." No
matter. It is all dismaying. This book is, like Preston's, above, currently being
remaindered; my copy cost me $8.00. I recommend it highly. Debra
Greger's Desert Fathers, Uranium Daughters (New York: Penguin
1996) also emerges from these same issues, at least in part,
but--unlike any of the books already mentioned--Greger's is a book of
poems. I picked it up for its first section. Primarily poetry of the
landscape and memories of Greger's own youth--she was raised near Hanford
by a father who worked at the plutonium producing factory built there
during the War by General Groves and the Manhattan Project (and now one of
the truly great American ecological disaster sites)--this is pretty
powerful stuff. I don't think my warm recommendation of these
poems is due only to my sympathy for Greger's subject matter in this one
section of her book, but I can't ignore the possibility. Still and all,
my recommendation is warm: these are good poems and this is a good
book. Last, and maybe least--but a
great deal of mindless fun anyway--is a book I read as a kind of
"preparation" for a course I am teaching jointly this spring on popular fictions. Olivia Goldsmith is
the author of several books. One of her earlier ones, called The First
Wives Club, is the basis of a current movie that a gracious god has so
far allowed me to miss. Last year, however, she published a book called
The Bestseller (New York: HarperCollins, 1996). My pleasures
in this book were so great that I feel it would be churlish in me to fail
to mention it here on the mere grounds that it is lousy. "Lousy"? So what.
Here is a book that brings together every cliché you ever
wanted, and more, about the world of blockbuster publishing. Share
the wealth (as I have done, passing the copy I read along to my co-teacher
in the course on popular fictions). Read this book. (A consumer
advisory follows: Some readers may require rubber diapers while doing
so.)
"What is all this Indiana stuff?"
a Philadelphia Hoosier-in-exile asked me, following last month's encomia
on Edward Eggleston and three of
his novels, The Hoosier School-Master, The Circuit Rider,
and Roxy. "Simply an attempt to bring yourself into the high
literature of the midwest? Or are you moving out there?" I guess it's the
former. I'm certainly not moving there, despite the undoubted delights of
Indiana . . . delights I remember all too well. There, for instance,
Bambi and I have actually met. We met in less than ideal circumstances,
however, on I-65, two miles south of the I-70 interchange in downtown
Indianapolis, at 3:30 P.M. on a nice June afternoon. Bambi had just
successfully navigated all of I-65's southbound lanes when I first saw
him, leaping gracefully over the median strip into the northbound
lanes. Into me, as it happens, then driving from Bloomington with some
friends to see, we had thought, the Indianapolis bookstores, and chugging
along at about 70 m.p.h. in the left (high-speed) lane. This was not an
encounter that did Bambi any good at all. It also came fairly close to
opening up good positions at three major research libraries in New
England, northern California, and the Middle Atlantic regions. Close, but
no cigar: unlike Bambi, we did not provide dinner for the kindly
pickup truck driver who stopped, made sure we were okay, went off the
interstate to call for help, and then came back to ask us if we had any
plans for Bambi and, if not, would we mind if he (instead of we) turned
him into McDeerburgers. We had no such plans and so off they went, one of
them happily. And so, some time later, here I am, able once again to
read about Indiana. And I am doing so. Eggleston's books are mostly out of
print; but I had noticed that The Hoosier School-Master is
available as a Library of Indiana Classics reprint from Indiana University
Press. It seemed likely, even to a dim bulb, that other books in that same
series might also prove to be fun; and so it has proved indeed. When I went looking for another such book, I found one in
my very own home. Back in Bloomington the day after Bambi's sudden demise,
I'd bought a copy of Gene Stratton-Porter's Freckles. It had
been sitting quietly awaiting someone to open it; and, for
me--post-Eggleston--this seemed the right time. Now that I've read it,
what can I say about her book that will convince anyone that, as dreadful
as it is, it is also wonderful, delightful, and fun?
Freckles is the heart-rending story, positively dripping
with schmaltz, of a boy abandoned in infancy after his mother apparently
took off his hand and then left him to die. Although he knows no love, he
does know enough, in mid-adolescence, to flee the Chicago orphanage in
which he has been raised. Wandering southeast, he finds salvation as the
guardian of a prime lumber preserve in the Limberlost, a forest in
northeast Indiana, whose owner takes him on and comes to love him, and
where, in addition, he learns to know and love the woods and its
inhabitants, to triumph over temptation and evil, to love a good woman,
and to win her father's approval (as well as his boss's). Eventually, he
even finds out that his past is better than anyone could have
hoped. Much incident, little surprise; a casually eugenicist attitude
towards the development of human natures and abilities (of the kind a
Renaissance writer might have handled as a variation on the de vera
nobilitate topos); covert homoeroticism; intense observation of
nature; now old-fashioned views on the usefulness of a forest such as the
Limberlost; a fascinating take on motherhood and the nature of familial
love: somehow, Stratton-Porter makes the stew work. It's a hell of a
story, strongly rooted in its time and place, and--melodrama and sentiment
notwithstanding--I loved it. . . . And therefore I turned right around
and read A Girl of the Limberlost, available in the same
Indiana University Press reprint series. This novel tells (more or less)
the same story as Freckles, except that Freckles (now married to
the Swamp Angel, living in Grand Rapids, and vacationing on Mackinac
Island) is just another character in this book, which is about Elnora
Compton. In the earlier book it was Freckles, now it is Elnora who must
find a loving mother. Mrs. Compton is not dead physically; but spiritually
she has been dead for years. She blames her daughter for preventing her
from rescuing her paragon of a husband on the day he died in a Limberlost
swamp as Elnora was being born--literally as she was being born.
When Mrs. Compton finally reaches the swamp, all that remains of him to be
seen is an air bubble rising to the surface and breaking (the image seems
grotesque when you first encounter it, but in fact Stratton-Porter has got
it just right). Once again, truth, integrity, and
straightforwardness manage to find their upright way. Elnora wins back her
mother to love and to life. She finds solace (like Freckles before her) in
the natural world of the Limberlost, exploitation of which supplies her
economic needs during the years when her mother supplies them not at all.
Ultimately, she also helps back to health (spiritual as well as physical,
of course) and simultaneously wins the love of a good man, and wins it,
moreover, fairly and squarely in a contest with someone else who appears
to be of his social class. True nobility is not a matter of external
appearances, however. Good breeding tells. It tells yet again in
Stratton-Porter's The Harvester, which I zipped through next
(and once again in a Library of Indiana Classics edition). The swamp--the
Limberlost that had so dominated Freckles and A Girl of the
Limberlost--is now sadly diminished but David Langston ("the
Harvester" of Stratton-Porter's title) has kept a little of it alive and,
in that little, seeks, cultivates, and finds natural drugs with which he
assists pharmacists and physicians to fight disease. He is a healer whose
power comes, in part from his close observation of nature (a theme
throughout Stratton-Porter's novels), and in part, too, from his
insistence on the "purity" of his products and on his own "purity." (It
would be hard to overestimate the importance of this word in The
Harvester.) The novel opens on the day that David and his dog speak
about their future for the next year. The dog tells David that, although
he should keep working at his harvesting (rather than seeking new fortunes
in "the city"), this is also the year he must seek a woman. David, in an
action so uncharacteristic of Stratton-Porter's books that its power is
astonishing, is appalled by this news and (I blush to write it) kicks the
dog--an action he spends the rest of the book apologizing for (and quite
rightly, too). The oracular dog is followed that same night by a dream
vision of the woman for whom David must now seek: she walks across the
lake and enters his house before disappearing. It must be pretty clear
by now that this is a very strange book . . . and so you may not
find it surprising to hear that, just a few months later, as David is
manhandling some drug packages onto a train in the nearby town, he sees
his dream woman walk off the train that has just arrived from Chicago.
Since, however strange, there are indeed no surprises here, I will not
spoil any for you by admitting that, yes, he does eventually find and win
her, although the pages and incidents that intervene are many. And
fascinating. Porter seems to have sold more than ten million copies of
her books. She was apparently a big league bestseller early in the
century. I've enjoyed these three and recommend them warmly. I, for one,
will read more of her work as I can get to it. In an Indiana frame of mind, I also read Booth
Tarkington's Penrod this month. I confess to having liked it
less well than the novels I've now read by both Eggleston and Porter.
Tarkington's racism is casually unconscious, simply something he takes
utterly for granted. Herman and Verman, the local African-American
kids--not that that's what Tarkington calls them--are just a little too
cute. The introduction of Maurice Levy--a show-offy kid with too much
money and too many things, whose ambition it is to own a "deportment"
store--as Penrod's nemesis did not sit well with me. I am, after all, a
Levy, not a Penrod. (A Penrod has mentioned to me, however, that, when she
read the book as a little girl, Maurice's ethnicity was something she
never even noticed. In her neck of the woods, that would have been easy,
of course: Maurice wasn't there.) Highly episodic, the book betrays its
origins in magazine short stories; it doesn't feel like a novel,
nor does it entirely behave like one, either. All this granted, it is
nonetheless a very funny book. Despite it, despite myself, I wound
up liking it enough to be in the middle of Penrod and Sam as I
write these words. I don't know how I managed never to read
Penrod when I was a kid. The world of the book is not like any
world I knew as a kid, at least in its externals, and that must have
seemed offputting (if I ever looked at the book at all, as I think I did
on a couple of occasions). I have the feeling that, while I may have
missed something then, I may nonetheless be better able to appreciate the
book's virtues--there are virtues here, let me stress, as well as
the problems I've also mentioned--now. Last
of all, my exiled Hoosier correspondent sent me to Meredith
Nicholson, a writer whose very name I had never heard until my
correspondent's note arrived last week. A Hoosier Chronicle
appeared in 1912; that is also the edition in which I read it. The
Nicholson shelf in my University's library is a long one, and the books on
it are thick (this one runs to a bit more than six hundred pages). They
are also dusty. This copy appears not to have circulated since 1947. Harry
Truman was President; we had not yet gone to war in Korea; and
Nicholson--born in 1866--died that year. He has remained quite decidedly
dead ever since. Small college life, small-town journalism,
entrepreneurial women, college education for women, Indiana politics, the
effects of Yale and William Graham Sumner on the rural Indiana young, and
the challenges of the moral life, all occupy Nicholson's attention in this
book, which concerns the world in which Sylvia Garrison grows up. Raised
by her grandfather, a Civil War veteran and retired astronomy professor,
in the world of a small college, and educated at home by him, she is
thrown by circumstances, after his death and her graduation from
Wellesley, into the milieu of state politics. Through her eyes we watch a
Democratic party "boss" and Dan Harwood (the Yale graduate) play out their
roles in Indiana's version of "the great game." Although Nicholson's book
clearly aligns itself with the progressive movement, its social attitudes
are nonetheless a bit retrograde: like Stratton-Porter and like
Tarkington, Nicholson has problems with "difference." No matter. I
recommend this book unreservedly. And I plan to slither, as time permits,
down the shelf of his other books. Why does it take an accidental
encounter with an erudite Hoosier to make his name known to someone who,
like me, used to think he had a pretty fair knowledge of authors worth
reading? For a class I've
been teaching, I had occasion to read A. D. Melville's translation
of Ovid's Metamorphoses (World's Classics). At the same
time, B. P. Reardon's Collected Ancient Greek Novels (Berkeley
1989) provided me with translations of Heliodorus's
Ethiopica and Longus's Daphnis and Chloe for the
same class. Ovid needs no recommendation and Melville's translation is
generally quite readable. I wish, however, that he hadn't felt it to be
his religious obligation (as other Cousins have similarly felt it to be in
analogous situations) to impugn the intelligence and taste of American
translators of Ovid. American is not his language; give it a rest. Still
and all, the momentary dyspepsia of his preface is not characteristic of
the translation itself; the book is great fun. Heliodorus and Longus may
be more akin than Ovid is to ancient Gene Stratton-Porters. They are not
high, they are low. They are also completely enjoyable. The translations
in Reardon's anthology are good, their notes unobtrusive, their
introductions short and to the point. And both stories are simply
wonderful. Low they may be . . . but, as it happens, we know that writers
like Sidney and Cervantes thought they were pretty good, too. Even Mr.
Bill, the talking playwright, uses motives that seem to spring from the
heads of such romances as these. Speaking of
Mr. Bill, it seems worth noting--even though it is a film and thus
not strictly speaking relevant in this context--that his porcine
tragedy has been turned into a four-hour or so cinematic
extravaganza with a brilliant Claudius (Derek Jacobi), a fine Gertrude
(Julie Christie), a wonderful Ophelia (Kate Winslet), and other
performances so good as to be worth the price--endurance of an adequate,
but in this company noticeably less-than-wonderful, performance in the
title role itself--of admission. Hamlet uncut is itself
something so unusual to encounter outside a printed text that one is,
finally, grateful to have this version of it, warts and all.
In January, when I spoke about Indiana writer Edward Eggleston, I remarked that
his books gave me a sense of the significance of militant Christianity in
American life that little else had previously succeeded in conveying to
me. This month, reading for a course on popular fictions I am currently
involved in teaching, I read another book which, although not by an
American, did exactly the same thing, and (as they say) in spades: John
Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress (which I read in Roger
Sharrock's edition for Penguin, 1987, with revisions). I think
I have read Bunyan before; at any rate, I can easily recall my old Pocket
Book (or was it a Cardinal?) paperback edition, which must have cost
between 25¢ and 35¢, with its odd eggshell blue and white matte cover
(although I haven't seen this book for years and haven't a clue what ever
became of it). Moreover, some parts of Bunyan's tale seemed--perhaps not
surprisingly--exceptionally familiar. "Familiar" or not, the whole came
as an enormous surprise. It has (obviously) been so long since I
encountered any of it, whether the whole or just a part, that I was
overwhelmed by the book's striking power. Years ago, I imagine, I'd have
thought Pilgrim's Progress yet another book that "needs no
recommendation" in a context such as this one. Now, however, my impression
is that it is increasingly a book known better at second- than at
first-hand. It deserves much more than that. Some other non-Indiana novels have also occupied me
recently. Another that I have been reading for the same popular fictions
course for which I read Bunyan--in the translation that Penguin published
in 1950--is Don Quixote. Does this book need a tout
here? All I feel the need to say about it is that the book--every bit as
good as I had recalled it being--proved sheer pleasure. To my ongoing surprise, my slow progress through the
literature of Indiana continued to move ahead. Last month, I mentioned
reading--with decidedly mixed reactions--the Library of Indiana Classics
reprint of Booth Tarkington's 1914 novel Penrod but finding myself,
nonetheless, going ahead with his Penrod and Sam. I've now
read that next book in Tarkington's Penrod series (in the 1916
edition published in Garden City, NY, by Doubleday, Page). My reactions
remain no less mixed than they were after Penrod. Like
Penrod, Penrod and Sam is redolent throughout of genteel
racism and sexism. The sexism is much more virulent in this book than in
the earlier one. Its focus, interestingly enough, is Penrod's mother, who
rarely rises to the level of a dolt. Although Tarkington's treatment of
"little" Maurice Levy struck me as less repellent here than I'd found it
in the 1914 book, his condescension to Herman and Verman, the neighboring
black children, is rooted in a pretty clearly-implied belief that they are
not fundamentally human in the same way as his white characters. Well,
what can I say? Despite these . . . what shall I call them?
"difficulties"?--Penrod and Sam is, like Penrod, also
extremely funny (if a bit more forced). What to do with such books?
I suppose that "forget them" is a possible answer. It is certainly
a better answer than the "aw, isn't this too bad?" proferred by the person
whom Indiana University Press found to introduce its reprint of
Penrod. Gary Cooper shrugs his shoulders winningly. Quaker Grace
Kelly shoots some sonofabitch into kingdom come. And then they ride out of
town together, the issues that divide them forgotten. It would be
interesting to know more--more than I know, anyway--about the milieu out
of which these attitudes emerge, the better, it seems to me, also to
understand the strikingly dismaying view of childhood itself that is
Tarkington's. His children are monsters: walking exemplars of what it
means to be born into a state of "original sin." All right, I suppose;
except that Tarkington seems to believe in none of the Protestant
theology from which the sense of "original sin" emerges. The tone with
which Tarkington discusses even the basic religious pieties of the
Schofield family's Sunday church experience, for instance, suggest the
disfiguring vacuum at the heart of his world view. Meanwhile, the book's
constantly reiterated casual cruelty to animals; Tarkington's consistent
sense that women, African-Americans, and Jews are not "us"; the sheer
viciousness and insensitivity with which he--so far as I can tell,
uncritically--depicts people, old and young, behaving towards one another
(parents to children, children to one another): all these, and more, offer
a raking insight into characteristics of a certain kind of American life
that, by and large, most of us would really rather not recall. And
don't recall, as it happens, at least not without the overlay of a
bland nostalgia that covers all complications. I'm not sure we
should recall these characteristics. But I am glad to have their
vicarious experience, which I find confusingly educational. I will, I
suppose, continue with Tarkington for a while longer. I hope that from
this immersion in what I neither understand nor like I may learn something
about American cultural life worth my while. Another Indiana writer whose books I continue to read is
Meredith Nicholson, whose Hoosier Chronicle I commented on
last month. With thanks again to Indiana University Press's Library of
Indiana Classics, I went on to read The House of a Thousand
Candles, which Nicholson published in 1905 (rpt. Bloomington
1986). I wasn't enthusiastic about The House of a Thousand
Candles. It is not a bad book: simply enough, it's an entirely
enjoyable read. But, by comparison with A Hoosier Chronicle, it's a
piece of enjoyable fluff merely. The 1912 Hoosier Chronicle deals
with politics, morals, self-knowledge, transformation, and the roles open
to women in society. Candles is a mystery and gothic. Set in a
huge, unfinished house in Indiana to which an uncle's will peremptorily
yanks his nephew as a condition of inheritance, it confronts its
protagonist with some nastily villainous antagonists and poses a set of
mysterious questions its hero and heroine must answer. For its readers,
the book's pleasures result largely from watching the plot unfold around
its heroes and suck them, willy nilly, into itself. Fortunately, the
heroes are characters to whom we respond with warmth. The house itself
has mysterious passageways, entrances, egresses, underground tunnels--all
the sorts of things, and more, that make one wish Catherine Morland had
been removed here, rather than to staid old Northanger Abbey. An
architectural labyrinth, the house also comes equipped with "the best
library in America" of antiquarian architectural books. (Rare books seem
to be a more than occasional interest in Nicholson's work, judging, at any
rate, by their role in both Candles and A Hoosier Chronicle.
In Chronicle, the political boss whose reformation Nicholson
relates is a collector of Americana. Through one of his earliest
acquisitions, a secret of his past is discovered.) So extraordinary is the
house that its position in the title is completely justified: it is
practically a character in the book, which might almost be thought of as
an "architectural mystery." Yet this candlelit extravaganza never really
carries conviction as an Indiana house. In fact, the Indiana
setting of The House of a Thousand Candles seems almost
entirely irrelevant to the story's progress. This is not at all true of
A Hoosier Chronicle, making one wonder why that "genuinely"
Indiana novel did not make it into the Indiana University Press hit
parade of "Indiana Classics." I suppose Nicholson wants his readers to
think that his setting is relevant. The characters may all
come from elsewhere but they find themselves--in both senses--in Indiana;
and the central lovers eventually settle there, in the title
house. Well, all right. But I'd have been just as convinced by their
story had they met, adventured, and then settled down, in Lexington,
Kentucky, Peoria, Illinois, or Marblehead, Mass. I went on to
read Nicholson's The Port of Missing Men, a 1907
novel published in that year by Bobbs-Merrill (remember when
Indianapolis boasted a real publishing house?) This is a book
closer in seriousness--or lack of seriousness--to The House of a
Thousand Candles than it is to A Hoosier Chronicle, but the
book is more peculiar than either of them. For starters, it's a spy
novel. Alas, Nicholson is no John Le Carré or Alan Furst. He's
certainly no Joseph Conrad (just to stay in the world of his
contemporaries). The villains are as uncomplicatedly evil, stupid, and
physically inept as the heroes are good, intelligent, and manly. Even the
heroine has certain manly virtues, you may be unsurprised to hear. The
book's hero has a Big Secret. Readers familiar with Basic Plots 1A
through, oh, about 2D, will guess it by about page 12, if they're slow.
The central love story yields all the suspense of watching snowballs
dropped in pots of boiling water; it just takes a little longer to
dissolve. Still and all, I read it. And can't complain too much. This is
the tale of how Austro-Hungarian political intrigues resolve themselves on
American ground. "The port of missing men," the scene of the novel's main
action, is a Civil War battleground in the Virginia mountains. Nearly
forty-five years after the end of the Civil War, the author can yield due
honor to both Blue and Grey but, in the "night battle" of his own novel,
he allows for no shadings at all. One side is evil. The other is good. As
the scene shifts from Geneva to Washington to Virginia, and the novel's
action and issues come to a head, the reader begins to realize that this
novel is not only an "action-packed yarn" but also a view of the process
of Americanization. Nicholson is writing a paean to what "America" means,
vis-à-vis the old, polluted, and fetid world of European politics.
Reading The Port of Missing Men gave me a vivid perception of what,
a decade and a half later, immersion in European pollution might mean to
some Americans. From this general period, however,
if you want a really good "spy novel" but don't fancy encountering,
say, Conrad's The Secret Agent, you'll get everything
Nicholson has to offer and a great deal more, as well, from Erskine
Childers. A non-Indianan and rabidly anti-German British patriot (and
eventual World War I soldier), his Riddle of the Sands is as
good a read as ever. What is more, his life story will make fans of the
IRA of all of us. The Brits may have shot Childers (in Dublin, after the
War), but both Oxford and Penguin have editions of The Riddle still
in print. The next-to-last of the Nicholsons I read of late was,
as it happens, the best of all of them--and I liked A Hoosier
Chronicle a lot. Still, his 1903 novel, The Main
Chance, is even better. Set in "Clarkson"--a Missouri River town,
and one, therefore, located in the "new west," rather than Indiana or any
other region of the "old west"--the book contemplates one John Saxton,
failed Wyoming rancher, as he tries to untangle the mess left by a slew of
eastern investments gone wrong in the wake of the Panic of '97. The job
is a bail-out: his old Harvard classmates have taken pity on Saxton,
following the collapse of his ranching dreams, and the sinecure they
provide for him is supposed to take him out of their way while giving him
"something to do." But Saxton takes the bit and does do something
with the job. From the day of his arrival in Clarkson, we watch his
interactions with a number of other people. Some are more or less his age,
notably a lawyer with whom he becomes friendly, one Warrick Rarridan,
Rarridan's girlfriend, Evelyn Porter, and, more distantly, a person named
James Wheaton who works for Evelyn's father at the local bank. We also
watch his work with their elders, the men and women who established
Clarkson. A book about business and morality, as well as a love story
with melodramatic elements, this novel is deceptively old-fashioned. (Why
should it not be? Its ethos comes right out of Bunyan . . . unless, and I
doubt this, its author was considering some of the same themes that Max
Weber and R. H. Tawney were also to be contemplating earlier in this
century.) But its force and conviction remove it far from the world of
fluff elaborated in both The House of a Thousand Candles and The
Port of Missing Men. This is a book that makes clear why
Nicholson was once thought worth notice. It's worth finding and taking a
look at. The same cannot be said of the very last of the
Nicholson novels I got to, The Poet (Boston: Houghton Mifflin,
1914). With colored illustrations and "designs" by W. A.
Dwiggins, the production values imposed upon this book proclaim its
author's significance and his publisher's confidence in his work; and I
would suppose The Poet even has some interest as a collectible.
Unfortunately, the book is otherwise of historical interest only. In
this novel, Nicholson purveys high anxiety about the stability of family
life and a sentimental view (equally suffused with anxiety) of the power
of Art when it intervenes in affairs of the World. Its depictions of women
and artists both have a touch about them that begs for a historian's
cynical attention. The five-year-old Marjorie--The Poet's sight of whom
standing dejectedly at a children's party, in the wake of her parents'
separation, starts the whole shebang off, more or less--is a bit less
engaging: in fact, when ums opens its cute little mouf and speaks, this
ums wanted to barf. The Poet--can you believe that the character
has no other name?--who is the novel's central character is not quite as
engaging even as Marjorie. It might be nice to know what Nicholson
thought he was doing here. Alas, I was not able to muster quite enough
curiosity to care. . . . And so much, once
again, for Indiana and its writers. Another book I recently read was an
altogether different--and not just because it is a
"non-Indiana"--kind of book, namely, Daniel Javitch's Proclaiming a
Classic: The Canonization of Orlando Furioso (Princeton University
Press, 1991). Too few scholarly books are this intelligent, this well
written, and this provocative. Javitch places his central
question--why do some books get canonized?--in a context so well
historicized that his point of view--they don't get canonized for
reasons intrinsic to their obvious merits but rather because they satisfy
certain external culturally-defined needs--is illuminated by his
specific rather than by a generalized and hypothetical context. The very
specific basis of his discussion is Lodovico Ariosto's immense Orlando
Furioso. Javitch's discussion illuminates not only issues of
canonicity but also the poem itself. For me, it is equally important
that he illuminates--as if those other two accomplishments were not
enough!--important aspects of publishing history, including the
part that intelligent publishing plays in making a book fit for its market
(or for many markets), getting it to its public (or its many publics) in a
manner that realizes (or promotes?) the book's importance. His book is
therefore, in just about every conceivable respect, of immense
significance for people interested in how we come to read whatever it is
we come to read: a question, obviously, of some interest to me. I wrote a
sketchy summary--too long to reproduce here--of Javitch's book for the
popular fictions course I'm involved in teaching this spring. It is
available here for anyone with interest and
patience. Chad Oliver's The Winds of
Time (1957) has recently been reprinted in Three in
Time, an anthology of three science-fiction novels on time-travel
themes. (The other two are Wilson Tucker's The Year of the Quiet
Sun and Poul Anderson's There Will Be Time.)
Published by White Wolf (Clarkston, GA, [n.d.]--presumably 1997?;
the firm appears to specialize in science fiction and fantasy), the book
is volume 1 in the White Wolf Rediscovery Series ($15.00). I've always
liked Oliver. Shadows in the Sun is one of my favorite
fifties s-f novels, and The Shore of Another Sea is nearly
as good. Oliver himself was a professional (academic) anthropologist; the
"science" of his s-f novels depends on anthropological knowledge, a point
I admired then (and still admire now) about them. (Science fiction is not
the province only of engineers and physicists.) I'd missed The Winds of
Time during the fifties, so my encounter with it in this anthology was
my first; and the novel proves to be no exception to Oliver's other works,
with a strong rootedness in its writer's anthropological training. Even
so, it's a book that cannot be mistaken for anything other than a
"fifties" novel (s-f or not). Anxiety is its overwhelming mood. Husband
and wife are mismatched; she wants wants wants. He tries his damnedest to
give give give her what she wants. No matter: really, it's never enough
for her. It certainly doesn't satisfy him, and, finally, what he wants is
out out out. Nothing about his world or his life quite makes sense to the
physician who is Oliver's hero. Over everything hangs the threat of The
Bomb and The End. Only in fishing trips high in the Rockies can he feel
that he gets away from it all, if just briefly. There, trout fishing in a
lake high above the timber line, he meets the book's dei ex
machina--literally "ex machina"--as they emerge from a cave into
which he has beaten a retreat during an unexpected hailstorm. The book
has little to do with time travel; it is the anthologists's conceit, not
it's author's, that this is its topic. Oliver views "time travel" as
possible only as a one-way trip into the future (via a kind of
suspended animation). The folks who emerge from the cave have been
sleeping in it for some fifteen thousand years. That is, they have been
there ever since their spaceship crashed on earth at a time when,
according to the knowledge Oliver had available to him in the mid-fifties,
men were just beginning to come to North America from Asia. They've chosen
to sleep in order to await development of a human technology able to
provide for their return to their own planet. That planet has sent them on
a mission to search the universe for other human beings who have solved
the problem of self-destruction to which every other planet with a
human population their planet knows about has succumbed. Unfortunately,
they've not only reached Earth and its indigenous humans far too early in
this population's history, but also they have estimated the pace of future
Earth-human developments wrong by about five hundred years: mid-fifties
technology turns out, when they arrive, not to be up to interstellar
travel. However (as we know), it is up to mass (atom and hydrogen
bomb) destruction. Two questions confront the now-awakened sleepers:
first, are they about to witness at first-hand the self-immolation of yet
another human race? and, second, can they somehow manage to escape the
technological restrictions of a race able to blow itself up but not able
to reach Mars, let alone another part of the galaxy, so as to enable
themselves to get "home"? It's not the best of Oliver's books by a long
shot. No matter. It's still fun, and just chock full of things about the
fifties that one is pleased to recall, if only for their (thank you,
Mistah Kurtz) horror. The second time-travel
work the White Wolf anthology reprints is Wilson Tucker's The Year
of the Quiet Sun. Originally published in 1970, it is a powerful
(and quite literally fascist) novel. Tucker is a writer whose earlier
works include The Long Loud Silence (1952), a depiction of a
post-nuclear holocaust America, and Wild Talent (1954), a
telepathy novel. I have long enjoyed them--perhaps even for more years
than I knew and enjoyed Oliver's books. In fact, I recently reread The
Long Loud Silence because of my interest in treatments of nuclear
issues in mid-century American writing. The Year of the Quiet Sun
has the same power and energy the earlier books exhibit. But it is the
product, not of the early fifties, but instead of the late sixties--years
which, it would seem, sent Tucker 'round the bend. At an experimental
facility located on a military post outside Joliet, Illinois, scientists
and engineers have developed and are testing equipment for time travel.
The year is 1978 (eight years in the future, when Tucker published the
book). The first manned tests take three time travellers to November of
1980 (the President, who has succeeded to office on the death of his
predecessor, wants to know whether he will win re-election). They next
travel, separately, to 1999, 2000, and an uncertain year that may be
ca. 2030. What they discover is dispiriting. That bugaboo of Cold
War America, a "weak Administration," has allowed the country to go to
hell in a wicker basket. War in Asia (ongoing since 1954) has sapped the
nation's strength and its manhood. Chicago is a radioactive memory. Worst
of all--and anyone who remembers the U.S. "civil rights" scene from 1964
through 1968 can understand what Tucker was thinking about here: race
riots must have scared him to death--America's black population has
erupted in a civil war directed against its white population. (No American
of Asian extraction appears in the book at all. Asians appear only through
references to the Chinese enemy that American troops fight.) Population
levels have declined drastically. There seem to be neither central nor
local governments. Tucker may even be describing climatic effects
that suggest "nuclear winter"--it's a cold July when Brian Chaney
reaches what seems to be 2030--but I am not certain that the "nuclear
winter" hypothesis would have been available for his use at the time this
book was written. Tucker does not think of himself as "racist," I would
bet, for a reason that I am not entirely sure I should spoil, since he
thinks you're going to find it a surprise. (I didn't. Robert A.
Heinlein used a similar trick in one of his juveniles, Tunnel in
the Sky, and similarly thought it absolved him of any guilt for
the deep-seated racism at the core of several of his other works. Charles
Willeford uses it in one of his mysteries, as well, although I rather
think Willeford uses it to depict and not to reflect racism.) Whatever
Tucker may think, I thought this a profoundly racist book. In
addition, the pessimism it expresses through its yearnings for a "strong
Administration" (Tucker cheerfully recalls "that actor fellow" in one
political conversation) is itself redolent, for me, of the call for the
leader on a white horse which I am just not inclined to hear with
pleasure. The book is nonetheless just as powerful as anything else
Tucker ever wrote, and one I am glad to have read. Once. The third of the novels in the White Wolf trilogy is
Poul Anderson's 1972 There Will Be Time. It too hates the
sixties and looks ahead to short- and medium-range futures that are
perfectly horrible. Like Tucker, Anderson is in full conservative reaction
to the rigors of the era through which he has been dragged, kicking and
screaming. Unlike Tucker, however, he is only conservative and
declines into neither paranoia nor fascism (although this is only a
relative plus, all things considered). There Will Be Time
is, nonetheless, probably the best of these three novels, compulsively
readable, and a damned good story; and its view of the far distant
human future--as opposed to the short- and medium range futures it
depticts more specifically--when the errors of the past (that is, of us)
have been laid aside, is golden. Against the emphatic backdrop of the
book's present and near futures, however, it is also somewhat
pie-in-the-sky and thus not entirely convincing. What finally struck me,
as I read this third of the fifties and sixties time-travel novels
gathered together here, is that all three share a surprisingly
elegaic quality. These are writers whose books, for whatever
different reasons, echo the words of a character in a play by a well-known
English writer who, at one point, remarks, "We have seen the best of our
times." What a cringing and pessimistic kind of science-fiction is
implicit in such a view! And what an entrée to the American
1950s! The Winter 1997 issue of
The American Scholar (66:1) includes two articles I read
with interest--and considerable distaste. The first is Jeremy
Bernstein's "The Merely Very Good" (pp. 31-39), which leaves J. Robert
Oppenheimer in P. A. M. Dirac's dust and Stephen Spender in Auden's. One
wonders why. An essay such as this one seems to do little other than to
hold up for egregious praise the journal's parting editor's grotesque
sense that "we" must have "standards"; that "we" must compare, contrast,
and criticize in order to rank. "I think continually of those who
were truly great," Spender writes, in a poem of quite remarkable authority
that deals, perhaps more humanely, with some of the issues to which
Bernstein (beneath the glowing sun of Joseph Epstein) phototropically
responds. Has Bernstein done anything quite so low as to read
Spender? Even more distressing is William
Youngren's essay "Haggin" (pp. 63-93), which is disfigured by
its self-exculpatory whine combined with unconsciously self-damning
content, neither relevant to the topic Youngren alleges he is writing
about. Youngren writes in ostensible praise of B[ernard] H. Haggin.
Although in his later years Haggin wrote for such journals as the
Hudson and Yale reviews, his name may no longer ring any
bells for many people; now, he is simply a largely-forgotten music writer.
At the time Youngren wants to recall, however, he was noted for his
unhappy efforts to adopt the New Criticism, particularly its authoritarian
and ex cathedra modes of discourse, to music criticism, together
with his equally unhappy hero worship of Arturo Toscanini, In his day, he
did influence--and almost certainly not for the better--mid-century
musical life in New York. Youngren's essay displays its author's
beautifully autumnal foliage by dropping name after name--among them the
name of my very own dissertation director--in such a way that his
"we" is made to constitute a select group of people all of whom know that
those whose names are dropped were graduate students in English literature
at Harvard University in the years just after World War II and through the
early fifties. Who else would care about these names, otherwise almost
completely unknown apart from the world of various literary
specialists? Youngren's effort to resurrect Haggin seems related,
curiously, to the same Epsteinian agenda that drives Bernstein's essay:
the resurrection of "standards," to which Haggin's ex cathedra mode
of discourse, like that of the now defunct New Critics, was much given.
Haggin claimed to say nothing but what the evidence of his own ears could
justify: free, in other words, of distracting theoretical considerations,
he could simply tell you what was there that was worth/not worth
(pick one) attending to. Right. I believe that. It's just that I
know no one else who does. Neither does Youngren or Epstein (or Bernstein,
either). Unlike me, however, they think they do. There's more--and worse--to say about this essay, even if
one avoids (as, a momentary good Christian, I will) the easy shots at
what, like Bernstein, Youngren has to say about himself, apparently
without embarrassment. Still and all, that a person writing about music
and music criticism could speak of Haggin and Toscanini as if Joseph
Horowitz's long, contentious (tendentious?), idiosyncratic, brilliant,
aggravating, and devastating book about Toscanini had never been written
is little short of amazing (Understanding Toscanini: How He Became
an American Culture-God and Helped Create a New Audience for Old Music
[New York: Knopf, 1987; now available from California as a
paperback]). It is an omission that does not inspire that willing
suspension of disbelief on which criticism such as that for which
Epstein's American Scholar once stood seems to rely. Might it be
already apparent that Horowitz's Understanding Toscanini is a book
that I recommend unreservedly? (Well, it is a little long; and it
is a little tendentious . . . So, as Steven Orgel once remarked in
a different connection, nobody's perfect.) Even if Understanding
Toscanini does nothing else, its report on the marketing of
music and "taste" will do wonders for those who, like Epstein, Bernstein,
and Youngren (where, oh where, are Martin, Barton, and Fish when you want
them?) still hold resolutely fast to the old belief that there are
"standards" that "we" who know them must promulgate. But it does a lot
else, as well; and it also explains--or, at any rate, does so if you're a
New Yorker and concert-goer of my fifties-plus age--a great deal about
what you have been spending years unlearning about music.
The Philadelphian
is the story of Anthony Judson Lawrence, Philadelphia lawyer and husband
of one Grace Shippen. In part, the entire novel reminds one of a story
told about Bostonians and their odd little ways by Cleveland Amory in
The Proper Bostonians (New York: Dutton, 1947, and often reprinted
in paperback). Tall or otherwise, Amory's tale recalls a midwestern firm
of something-or-others who, prior to hiring a young man from Boston, write
to their correspondents in his home city to ask for references. The letter
arrives; the young man is duly hired. Some time later, on a business trip
east, the midwestern boss meets the person from Boston who had written the
reference. The Bostonian asks if the young man had been hired. Told that
he had been, the Bostonian then adds that he hopes his reference proved
useful in that decision. A short, embarrassed silence follows, and then
the midwesterner replies, yes, more or less . . . but, really, we had not
been planning to use him for breeding purposes. Roughly the first third
of Powell's Philadelphia novel provides Arthur Judson Lawrence with the
sort of genealogical background that, Amory suggested, is
characteristically Bostonian. The book makes indistinguishable--at least
to this outsider to both places--the differences between the two cities
(crucial to sociologist Digby Baltzell and also important, it happens, to
Powell, although, fascinatingly, he precisely reverses Baltzell's
reading of how the two cities differ). The novel begins by joining
Tony's great-grandmother, Margaret O'Donnell, en route, in steerage, to
Philadelphia in 1857. We follow her sudden rise and fall in service to
Mrs. Logan Clayton. We continue with Margaret's daughter Mary as she sets
out to find someone appropriate for herself in Philadelphia and winds up
with Harry Judson, old Philadelphian and classics master at Franklin
Academy. We move to Tony's mother, the only child of that union, Grace, as
she finds herself marrying William DeWitt Lawrence, the only son of a
millionaire's widow. And then we concentrate on Tony for the second
two-thirds of the book. The novel has several lovely moments, some of
which simply epitomize "Philadelphia": Like the woman who came up to them outside the
Capitol in Washington and said, "Hello, folks. I'm from Ohio. I see by
your license you folks are from Pennsylvania." Anthony said quickly,
before his grandmother or mother could reply, "Oh no, we're from
Philadelphia." The woman looked puzzled and said, "They haven't moved it
from Pennsylvania, have they?" His mother and grandmother laughed
politely, so the woman wouldn't feel badly about being ignorant, because
of course Philadelphia was in Pennsylvania, but you weren't from
Pennsylvania, you were from Philadelphia. He guessed maybe out in Ohio
there were no important places to be from, so you had to be from Ohio (p.
160). Otherwise, however, The
Philadelphian is a conventional 1950s "realistic" novel of manners,
more or less in the mode of James Gould Cozzens's
now-damned-beyond-redemption By Love Possessed (which appeared one
year later, in 1957) or John O'Hara's somewhat more acerbic
books--"Pennsylvanian," not "Philadelphian," to adopt the distinction that
Powell makes young Tony use. But it is also something more than that: a
"political" novel, if one may use that term for so quiet a book. It has
many virtues, not the least of which is the detail with which it traces
the disciplining and fashioning of the kind of person Tony turns out to
be. That process serves finally to explain why its genealogical approach
is necessary for Powell's theme to be fully worked out. Others of its virtues may be less conscious. I happened
to be speaking with an old Philadelphian--in both senses: of old and
distinguished family; and, although still in business, just around the
corner from entering his nonagenarian nonage--while I was reading the
book. He knew it, of course (although he has probably not read it since
1956), and in fact remembered the book well enough to get the joke when I
remarked that, before reading Powell myself, I had not realized how many
Irish had slipped into his lineage via the back door. Powell's
Philadelphia is an anti-Baltzell Philadelphia avant la lettre: his
"Philadelphia" is Baltzell's "Boston," which, in Puritan Boston and
Quaker Philadelphia (New York: Free Press, 1979), functions as
Philadelphia's anti-type, the exemplar of what Philadelphia could
have become had it only (in Baltzell's view) developed a politically
responsible upper class that did not shut itself off in insulated
isolation from newcomers knocking on their doors for admission to elite
status. Tony Lawrence is that politically responsible upper class,
with a hefty dose of Irish in his background, made Philadelphian. Baltzell
would have liked him. A city that now imports its Mayor from New York
City's Upper West Side might have liked him and his clones, too. Despite
this fundamental difference between them, Powell's and Baltzell's
imaginary cities do merge in other ways, some of which Baltzell, at least,
might not have liked. There are a limited number of peoples in Powell's
Philadelphia. Of course, we find upper-, middle-, and lower-class whites
of Anglo origins. Then there are the (leavening) Irish. Last, and least,
are Italians, although (thank the Lord!) we only need to meet one
of them. I recall one reference to Quakers; there may be another.
Mind you, no one in the book actually is anything quite so low,
but, on at least that one occasion, someone recalls that there was, once,
something Quakerish about the place. Jews? Count 'em, folks: none, nada,
zip, zero--and this in the city that had, till the beginning of this
century, the largest Jewish population in North America.
African-Americans? In this major locus of free African-American urban life
and, then, an important disembarkation point on the Underground Railroad,
they also are non-existent. One wonders, from the perspective of the
1990s--and of the '60s, '70s, and '80s, for that matter--what could
possibly be the nature of the place that Tony Lawrence imagines,
when he imagines what it is he wants to govern. 1956! It was
another country; they did do things differently there. Powell's
novel is an extraordinarily pleasant way to recall some of the features of
that now long-lost terrain. One of the novels
to which Powell's is in some sense a "reply" is the much earlier
Llanfear Pattern by Francis Biddle. Biddle was not a novelist only;
he would later serve as Franklin Roosevelt's Attorney-General and as one
of the judges at Nuremberg. The Llanfear Pattern (New York:
Scribner's, 1927) is a difficult book to like, although not so hard to
admire. It is basically a simple story. Carl Llanfear is the character
who, in Biddle's novel, plays what was, in Powell's, Arthur Judson
Lawrence's role, the lawyer who must respond to the pressures of his
Philadelphia upbringing and milieu. Lawrence is molded by Philadelphia
into the man turned political savior with whom Powell's novel ends.
Llanfear's experiences end differently. You might expect that result in
the book by a writer whose view of Philadelphia looks like
this: John Lukacs--who quotes the same passage from this novel
that I have quoted above in his wonderfully impressionistic book about
Philadelphia, Philadelphia: Patricians and Philistines, 1900-1950
(New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1981)--calls Biddle a "hanging judge" at
Nuremberg (p. 261, n. 2). This reader of his novel, knowing nothing else
about Francis Biddle, suspects that Lukacs's may be an accurate term for
him. Written almost two decades before those trials got underway, The
Llanfear Pattern is the work of a man who neither forgot nor forgave
anyone for anything. Another Philadelphia
novel, by another Biddle, is Livingston Biddle, Jr.'s Main Line: A
Philadelphia Novel (New York: Julian Messner, 1950). It has good
moments. Paul Brent's March 1946 train ride from 30th Street Station to
his home in Philadelphia's Main Line suburbs after his release from the
Army and return from combat in North Africa and Italy, the scene with
which the novel opens, is one of them. Here Biddle mingles well Brent's
eagerness with the sense of diminished expectations and disappointing
reality to which he has come home. There are other such moments in
Biddle's book. But there are too few of them, and Biddle's characters
seem, far too frequently, either terminally constipated or merely stupid.
No doubt Biddle's depiction of their problems represents an intentional
critique of the constricting nature of Philadelphia society--and, one
might add, a Philadelphia writer named "Biddle" ought to be in a
position to know whereof he speaks when it comes to such a topic. No
matter: however authentic it may be in experienced "fact," as fiction
Biddle's city portrait doesn't consistently compel assent. In contrast
to The Philadelphian and its sweep through Philadelphia history
from 1857 through 1956, or even to the span of time it takes Francis
Biddle to tame Carl Llanfear, this Biddle looks narrowly at
Philadelphia during a tiny slice of time, running from that March 1946
train ride through June of 1948 and the birth in Bryn Mawr Hospital of
Paul's first child. With so narrow a focus, Livingston Biddle sees a good
deal close up. The plot turns on Paul's discovery, almost as soon as he
returns from the war, that he is in love with Cassandra Emerson, the wife
of his best friend, Randy. Society disapproves. Characters cringe but
bravely forge ahead anyway. A divorce, a marriage, and a child all follow
in due, if perhaps a tad rapid and confusing, course. Really. Even an avid
reader might blush if forced to confess that he finished the book
anyway. But it is interesting. After Paul and Sandra decide that
they must be together, but before Randy is willing to allow the divorce
that will permit them to marry, they live together in sin. Evidently this
was something of a shockeroo in 1950, and other characters respond with
predictable badness. Nonetheless, what interested me in their
situation--and typical of the things that interest me in this book--was
that, from the little apartment ("almost in the slums") to which the happy
couple repairs, Paul Brent emerges five days a week for his job as a
newspaperman at the Bulletin. What, I kept wondering, was ol' Sandy
doing? It took me a while--longer than it should have, I admit it--to
twig: she was staying in the apartment. Reading cookbooks. And getting
ready not just to cook but also and more generally to practice domesticity
on a middle- rather than an effete upper-class scale, viz.: herself,
without, as we might say, domestics to assist her pursuit of
domesticity. Sandra's first husband, moreover, is revealed to be an
effete specimen himself, a revelation symbolically encapsulated (watch out
for this one: it's a toughie as literary symbols go) in his inability to
make her pregnant. Years of marriage--punctuated, it is true, by Randy's
absence when he, like Paul, was employed abroad by the government--have
produced nothing by way of young Emersons. But after mere weeks with Paul
Brent (a real man) Sandy turns up gravid. Randy's problem turns out to
derive from his mother, an overbearing exemplar of Philip Wylie's Momism
at work; his sister (who had been in love with Paul Brent before the war
and expected to marry him on his return) is also victimized by this
monster mom. A moment of triumph towards the end of the novel comes when
Randy's father finally contradicts his wife and sets out to rescue, not
Randy--it is too late--but his sister, pining away, usually in pickled
form, for the lost Paul and for the children that she will now never have.
(In this novel, women find their identity through providing their husbands
with children.) These matters don't exactly constitute
"literary" interest, of course. On the other hand, voyeurism has its
charms. If Powell's 1956 Philadelphia is, in 1997, "another country,"
Biddle's 1950 Philadelphia is positively Mars. It's a weird and wonderful
place to visit. Elaine Tyler May could have used his novel when she wrote
her grand study of the postwar re-imprisonment of American women,
Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era (New York:
Basic Books, 1988), a truly brilliant--and, for the mordant, desperately
funny--work of historical reconstruction that tried to explain Mars of the
'40s and '50s for Americans of the 1980s. Biddle's Mars is, by the way,
quite specifically Mars à la mode de
Baltzell: ". . . I'm not against the Main Line when it comes to
individuals. We still have civic-minded citizens who live outside the city
limits, but the number's dwindling. Hell, this city ought to be an
example--look at your history. Look at your history and then at the slums
around Independence Hall. What's happened? Apathy--five star general
apathy. ". . . A lot of what's wrong with this fair city of ours lies in
the word society." (p. 205) When all is said and done, the world
Biddle creates is so different from the Philadelphia I am slowly coming to
know that, despite his book's many problems, I enjoyed my
visit. Meanwhile, back in Indiana . . . This
month, I was able to read yet another of the books in Indiana University
Press's Library of Indiana Classics series, Gene Stratton-Porter's
Laddie: A True Blue Story (1913; rpt. Bloomington, 1988). This is
the story of a boy and his love, Pamela Pryor ("the Princess"), told from
the (occasionally consistent) point of view of the youngest of Laddie's
siblings, Little Sister. Pamela's parents have a problem: unspeakable
troubles shadow their lives, preventing them from relating, as if they
were ordinary human beings, to the people they have settled among, far
from their English home. Thus they make it very difficult for Laddie and
Pam to meet, let alone to court. Little Sister has a problem, as the
unwanted last child of many in a home that, before her arrival, had
celebrated its freedom from the thrall in which little ones place their
parents. Little Sister and Laddie team up to effect the salvation of one
and all. None of this may sound like the stuff of a book you want to
read. Sentimental? Yup. Too bad. Great story. Warm characters. Good plot.
(Well, maybe too tidy an ending.) All I can say is that, once again, I
found Stratton-Porter compulsively readable and fun. Loved it, to be
blunt. Your response to one moment in Marissa
Piesman's Survival Instincts (New York: Delacorte Press, 1997)
indicates, I am tempted to suspect, the chances of whether you will enjoy
this entertainment as much as I did: If you've missed the earlier books in Piesman's
Nina Fischman "mystery" series--"mystery" because, if you think these are
mysteries, someone will successfully sell you a very good bridge very
soon--this is as good as any of them to start with. But the rest are
pretty enjoyable, too. In their paperback incarnations (for reasons
reflective of the tendency of today's bookstore employees to move their
lips if asked to read anything as complex as a cereal box), they tend to
be located in the mystery section of a superstore near
you. ("Superstore" . . . now there's a word in need of
deconstruction.) For a class I'm teaching, I had
occasion to read Fanny Fern's Ruth Hall: A Domestic Tale of the Present
Time, an 1855 novel (reprinted by Rutgers in its American Women
Writers Series, New Brunswick, New Jersey, 1986--and also available from
Penguin). Yet another sentimental novel, Ruth Hall concerns a woman
who, after the death of her husband, learns to support herself by entering
the world of journalism. Ultimately, she will come to write books and her
popularity as a writer will be great--as was true of Fern herself: there
is a strongly autobiographical current in this book. The satire with which
Fern portrays Ruth's enemies (including her brother, modelled on Fern's
own brother, Nathaniel P. Willis) is harsh and amusing. The depiction of
the world of nineteenth-century American journalism is utterly fascinating
(and not dissimilar to the view Balzac paints of Parisian journalism in
his earlier novel, Les illusions perdues). The book, in short, has
much to recommend it, and I do. Warmly. I felt
just as warmly about The Sorrows of Young Werther, which I read in
Victor Lange's translation (from the Princeton University Press series of
Goethe's Collected Works, volume 11, 1995). A book I last read some
twenty or so years ago, Werther is a novel I remembered only
vaguely, so I was surprised to see how much fun I found it. Even more
surprisingly, it reminded me of Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground
and Camus's The Stranger in a number of ways. If, like me, you have
not read this book in a while, it will be one you, too, find provocative.
And well worth the brief time it requires. Another book I read for class was Harriet Beecher Stowe's
Uncle Tom's Cabin, or Life Among the Lowly. I read this great novel
in the amazingly badly proofread Penguin edition (1983), which--despite
its decent introduction by Anne Douglas--I won't assign as a text ever
again, although I will teach Uncle Tom again. But the
proofreading was not the only aspect of the book that amazed me, for the
book itself is simply remarkable from beginning to end. Some months ago,
I mentioned reading Jane Smiley's
comparison of Uncle Tom's Cabin and Huckleberry Finn, to
the perhaps surprising disadvantage of the latter. Is it too much to say
that I think, now, that Smiley was right? Probably--for, after all, I
haven't reread Huck in many years. But Stowe's book is so much of a
joy to read that Smiley and I may at least be in the same ballpark in the
way we think about it. Prejudice, mere prejudice, kept me from reading
Uncle Tom for far too many years. It is a great monument to
American literature, and specifically to a kind of moral and--dare one say
this?--Christian literary strain in American life to which we would do
well to pay renewed attention. I tried to make this point a few months ago
when I wrote about the virtues of Edward Eggleston (who, though he
started me off reading Indiana books, and is indeed a very good neglected
writer, is nonetheless not at all as good or as important a writer as
Stowe). Reading Stowe makes me feel the rightness of that point even more
strongly than I did when I first made it--but her book is good beyond any
such "points" at all: it is, simply, a book too wonderful to neglect (as I
did for too long) or to postpone rereading if you haven't reread it for a
while. Stowe tells a great story with characters positively Dickensian in
their vitality. It was a book that had a profoundly physical effect
on me: it made me feel better to read it and to have read it. I am still
basking in its glow. Reading Stowe sent me
headlong into Edmund Wilson's 1962 book about Civil War literature,
Patriotic Gore (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1962; again
available in a paperback reprint from W. W. Norton, 1994). As good a book
of literary criticism as any I've read in a long while, it deserves some
consideration in its own right, not just as a work of criticism or a guide
to additional reading. With all the appurtenances of scholarship it is not
"scholarship": in 1962 terms, it lacks a necessary disinterestedness,
being instead Wilson's sublimated but passionate response (or so I have
found it) to the militaristic and rhetorical environment of the Cold War.
I love it. Beautifully conceived and written, Wilson's book makes his
enthusiasms contagious. He has sent me to the Personal Memoirs of
U. S. Grant, which looks to be, at first dip, just as lovely as Wilson
suggests it will be (a Library of America edition of Grant [1990] is the
edition I have begun reading). Sherman's Memoirs (also in a 1990
Library of America edition) are sitting next to Grant. And other books
that Wilson mentions also seem extremely enticing. Oh, joy! The pile is
beginning to build . . . A friend who reads
poetry (thank goodness for such friends!) spoke highly of Henry Taylor's
new book, Understanding Fiction: Poems, 1986-1996 (Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 1996), which I later picked up in a
$9.95 paperback. My first reaction was that this is a volume of
conventionally academic poems; but I found, as I read through the book,
that its virtues were, if slow to grow on me, not less real for all that.
A momentary encounter on an airplane leads, in "Flying Over Peoria," to
this conclusion: "Yeah,
yeah, I knew Wally. Year in and year out
I break my elbows patting myself on the back for successfully
unlearning the lumber with which a youth misspent in the study of
something called Literature filled what passes for my mind. Then I bump
into a book like this one, a sort of reality test that reminds me that I
have unlearned--and, what is worse, learned--nothing at all. Well, maybe
not quite nothing: it was, after all, a book that I chose
for a jointly-taught class on popular fictions this semester, figuring
(correctly) that, if it were assigned, I'd have to climb this
particular mountain along with the students. In truth, however, I expected
it to be no more than a really big hill, a book that would help draw the
course to its close as, together, we trampled upon its low summit, in an
aura of self-congratulatory and easy contempt. "O tempora, o mores:
just look what happens to popular literature in our degenerate times."
Something like that. Bigotry must be its own reward: I for one certainly
detest having to change my mind about anything. Alas, I have had to change
my mind about Gone With the Wind. I could easily pigeonhole it,
unread, as romantic drivel that drives literary soap opera to new depths
and manages to present a view of the South which no one in his or
her right mind could find anything other than historically inaccurate and
racist to boot. Reading the book unhappily presented me with a differing
perception of it, one that required either that--a literary Talleyrand
(or, worse, Irving Kristol)--I regurgitate it whole or, instead, that I
think about it. Quite unhappily, I chose the latter course (needing, after
all, something to say about it with students). Romantic? Historically
inaccurate? Racist? Well, yes. But much more complicated than any
of those labels indicates, and, finally, much richer, as
well. Scarlett's is simply an astonishing characterization. I have long
wondered about the heroine of Conrad Richter's Ohio trilogy (The
Trees, The Fields, The Town), trying to guess what
literary or cultural precedents he might have had for writing about so
strong-willed and dominant a female character at a time (generally, the
1940s) when imagination should have been, I'd have thought, far more
constipated than to admit such a possibility. Obviously, my bafflement was
at least partly the result of knowing Scarlett only through Vivien Leigh's
insipid reduction, not Mitchell's far more vibrant depiction. (And partly,
too, the result of believing historians while forgetting that, although
they can tell us, perhaps, about generalities, they must lose sight of
individual exceptions.) Not only Scarlett but also Rhett Butler, Melanie
Wilkes, Ashley, Mammy, and the rest of them have--once the book has been
read--a resonance, a life in the imagination, that seems unlikely to
fade. Gone With the Wind fits Randall Jarrell's definition of the
novel as a long work in prose with a flaw. Here there are, as befits the
book's gargantuan size, many flaws. Its tone splits in two, I think,
making the Civil War and the Reconstruction sections (1, 2, and 3 vs. 4
and 5) sometimes seem as if they are parts of different books. Mitchell's
attitudes towards the South and its agrarian civilization, the North and
its capitalistic and money culture, the War, and the proper relationships
between men and women and blacks and whites, are difficult to assess, but,
as we assess them, they are also difficult to like. Nonetheless, so much
in the book contradicts, or appears to contradict, so much else in it,
that any definitive stance is as hard to reach for the book's readers as
it was for its author. Not impossible, mind you; just hard. The book,
for instance, is racist to the core. Yet Mitchell's racism, typically
American in this respect, is so deeply inbred that she does not recognize
how racist her own attitudes are (and would bridle at any such description
of herself). That her black characters are never portrayed as sufficient
in themselves but are granted their fictional existences only insofar as
they can relate to the worlds of their white masters seems, clearly, only
in the natural order of things for this writer. Thus, just so long as
these characters relate in the proper ways to the white ones, they are
wholly admirable, the creation of a writer who likes black folks
(unlike Yankees, who like the idea of black people but cannot
actually abide them in the flesh). But it takes little for Mitchell to
evict her "darkies" from this state of fictional grace. They might, for
instance, want to vote. In Mitchell's era, of course, almost no
southern African-Americans could do any such thing. Among the crimes that
Reconstruction was still paying for, a major one was its extension of the
franchise to people for whom Mitchell's imagery is most frequently
drawn from the animal world. Whatever else she may be, Scarlett
herself, as anyone who has read the book knows, is no paragon of anything
other than an intense desire for self-satisfaction and security at all
costs. She may be a flawed moral compass to the world of the book, but she
is also a supremely independent and successful one. By and large, Rhett is
no better--although he is, after all, one tiny jot and tittle better,
inasmuch as he is less self-deluded, than Scarlett. But perhaps the
differences between them are less even than this judgment implies: if she
is deluded about Ashley, after all, Rhett is deluded about her. Its
ending--some students complained that it left matters unresolved--seems to
me, precisely because it is unresolved, one of the best things
about the book. But one could go on piling up strengths and weaknesses
forever. The simple truth is that Mitchell's long novel poses the problem
of a book that is so disagreeable in almost every way--attitudinally, in
terms of the nature of the problems it describes and the varied
resolutions it proposes; and in terms, too, of the often loathesome nature
of the characters it presents--that one simply cannot like it or
admire it in good conscience. And does anyway. I think that's a problem
worth thinking about, and I can only urge the book that raises it to your
awed attention. It has certainly got mine. For
the same course, and for another I am teaching simultaneously, I reread John Grisham's 1996 The Runaway
Jury in its new paperback incarnation (New York: Island Books,
1997). It remains a book that seems to be quite handily in the tradition
of the "problem of England" novel prevalent in the nineteenth century and
characteristically Grisham's turf. Here the "problem" is the cigarette
industry. Anyone who rereads the book, as I have just done, about a year
after its appearance, is rereading it in a world where Liggett, R. J.
Reynolds, and other major tobacco companies are beginning to settle
health-related suits and duck for financial cover. One may be forgiven for
wondering whether the book merely reflected, or perhaps led, broad public
concerns with this issue. It is, in any case, still a fun read. I confess
to the guilty pleasure of having liked it just as much this time as I did
last. (My constant reader, if any, will by this point know that my taste
is nonexistent.) I was amazed, however, by the largely negative response
to the book of my students, who feel that this book is simply too low for
them. I am reminded, by their high-minded and qualitatively thoughtful
responses, of the long-lived effects of my own Literary Education and the
lumber with which (as I remarked earlier) it filled my head. Does no
one ever remember to tell the young that reading can be fun? and,
maybe, that in the fun is where everything else that we value about
reading and literature begins? I fear that English teachers have a lot to
repent themselves of. Robert Kotlowitz is
retired television executive and not very well-known novelist whose books
I have admired for years. (I am particularly fond of The Boardwalk
[New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1977].) This spring, he published a book that
I swallowed whole, but it is not a novel. Before Their Time (New
York: Knopf, 1997) is a memoir, short, grim, and self-effacing, even as it
asserts the self's long ago participation in an action now itself effaced,
deleted from memory. That action concerns someone called Pfc. Robert
Kotlowitz (Army of the United States, third platoon, Company C, 104th
regiment, Yankee Division), who was long ago a soldier at war in
Alsace. Kotlowitz's platoon took part in the Yankee Division's first
introduction to combat. Having reached Europe some months after the
Normandy landings, the Division replaced Patton's depleted Fourth Armored
Division, stalled after outrunning its supply lines while racing across
France en route to Germany. A few days later, in an assault on a hillside
at Bézange-la-petite (also known as Moncourt Woods), this platoon
and those additional people who joined in the assault were all but wiped
out. Three people only survived, and two of them were wounded. One was
unwounded: Kotlowitz. The same is true of the
official U.S. Army History of World War II. The volume called
The Lorraine Campaign . . . manages to give the impression that the
war in Alsace-Lorraine was fought by an agglomeration of trucks,
half-tracks, tanks, and humanoids in uniform, who may have resembled real
men, in a physical sense, but who pretty much went through the motions of
fighting without having to carry the burden of either names of authentic
faces. The 104th regimental history does it better . . . [but even here
Kotlowitz finds] in a reflective passage about Bézange that
"compared to the activities of the Western Front as a whole, these actions
were insignificant--a minor engagement on a nameless [sic] hill
somewhere in France. . . ." As the
regiment's "initial combat encounters," this history goes on, "they . . .
were all-important," for the first shock of battle brings "the realization
that combat means closing with the enemy and that closing with the enemy
meant, for some, death" (pp. 188-190). "Perhaps that's acknowledgement
enough for the third platoon," Kotlowitz continues. But it obviously
isn't. This book is the result. The book begins with the eighteen
year-old Kotlowitz plucked out of a pre-med program at Johns Hopkins,
removed from his Baltimore family, and packed off to Fort Benning for
basic training. It ends with Kotlowitz in New Jersey, seeing Bern Keaton,
his friend and sometime pup tent-mate from the moment both were assigned
to the Yankee Division. Although they had occasionally been in touch over
the years--Keaton, a great reader, called Kotlowitz now and again when
another book appeared--they had not seen one another since Keaton, shot
through the foot in the action at Bézanges, was evacuated to
England. Fifty-one years later, their wives both dead of lung cancer, with
children and grandchildren, the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day prods them
to get together at last. They both know that time for doing so is running
out. From this action, neither of them will get away merely wounded
or untouched. After a long day of talking with Keaton, Kotlowitz meets
the Keaton children and grandchildren, "all of whom," he remarks, "turned
out to have more than enough lightning Gaelic wit to spare. . . .
Nonetheless, brilliant as they were, they were almost totally unaware of
what their grandfather had survived, or how--exactly like my own two sons.
Or even of the possibility that they themselves had escaped with their own
lives through his survival, exactly like my two sons had through mine"
(pp. 192-194). No one who reads this short--and beautiful--book, as much
about memory as it is about war, will remain unaware of what Kotlowitz and
his contemporaries endured, and of the sheer and utter waste that killed
so many of them "before their time." Not since
William Wharton's wonderful--and very nearly unendurable--A Midnight
Clear have I read a war novel or memoir so unmistakeably about
children. It's an observation that, when it finally comes, doesn't
make this an easy book to endure, either. The
English writer Philip Kerr has written a number of quite interesting
"mysteries" (although I am not entirely sure if this is really the
right word for his books). Among them are March Violets, The
Pale Criminal, and A German Requiem, all available from Penguin
(originally separately and now as an omnibus volume called Berlin
Noir) and all about a p.i. whose beat is Berlin. Berlin, that is, at
the end of the 1930s. Not a really good time to be in the p.i.
business in Berlin, you might think; and you would be right. In A
Philosophical Investigation--the best of his books I have read--Kerr
involves us with a murder, a cop (she lives in London), and Wittgenstein,
all during the early years of the century. The century, that is, that
looms directly before us. On the whole, the present does not seem to be
Kerr's métier (although perhaps I would feel differently about this
point had I read Dead Meat and The Grid, two of his novels
written since these four which, as yet, I have missed). His newest
novel, Esau (London: Chatto & Windus, 1996; New York: Henry Holt,
1997), I have read, however. Set more or less in the present, it
seems, like those other books, at once more about the distant past--the
past of John Darnton's Neanderthal and Adam Popescu's Almost
Human, books I discussed briefly in April 1996--and about the future--a
time when India and Pakistan are busily waving nukes at one another.
Esau is built around mountain climbing, Shangri-La, paleontologists
investigating what seems to be a contemporary ramapithecine, and CIA
operatives trying to recover a downed spy satellite in the Himalayas, all
this while nuclear war threatens. It seems far too packed. A lot of its
good ideas are not especially comfortable with one another, and there are,
finally, too damned many of them for it to be believable. Moreover,
Kerr's characters are also, alas, not especially believable, in a much too
conventionally too-noble or a too-evil kind of way. Too bad. I liked it
anyway. It's a fun read. The ramapithecines (of course they show
up) are nice, if a smidge smelly. Their coprophagy is not nice. The
CIA is also not nice. And peace breaks out. The book's mountains may be my
favorite characters: this novel makes you feel chilly reading it. Sounds
like perfect summer reading to me (although, in the chilly spring evenings
when I read it, a different choice of book might have been
smarter). Meanwhile, back in Indiana . . . Yes,
I have read some more Indiana books recently. One was Gene
Stratton-Porter's The Keeper of the Bees. Posthumously published in
1925--the author had been killed in a Los Angeles automobile accident in
December of 1924--the book is again available from Indiana's Library of
Indiana Classics (1991). Its hero is Jamie MacFarlane, a World War I
veteran. The book opens as Jamie, after two years in a California
veterans' hospital where he has failed to recuperate from shrapnel wounds
in his chest, accidentally overhears physicians consigning him to a
facility for tuberculosis and other incurable patients. They are, in
short, consigning him to death. Jamie "escapes" from his hospital,
seeking to die on his own terms, not the government's. (A deep strain of
anti-government sentiment pervades the book.) He eventually finds himself
taking care of an apiary overlooking the Pacific. There he finds himself
slowly and surprisingly brought back to health by the purity and
cleanliness of his surroundings and his food--old friends, as
Stratton-Porter's themes go--and the love of a good woman. Alas, before
he realizes that he is going to regain his health and fall in love, Jamie
finds himself married, widowed, and a parent, all for no other cause than
the wish that he can do a woman in trouble some good before he himself
dies. His motives and actions are noble, despite their suddenness and
extremity. Stratton-Porter's strictures, not only on the government but
also on diet, on Americanization (and race), and on sexual morality for
young women in these degenerate postwar times, all add to the book's
interest, but it is, like others of her novels, first and foremost a warm
and engaging story. I liked it. Indiana writer Edward Eggleston had
three brothers. I bumbled into a recent reprint of a book by one of them,
George Cary Eggleston, who, Indianan by birth, moved to Virginia when
young and stayed to fight with the CSA against the Union. Years later, he
became a magazine editor (like his brother Edward) in New York and wrote
a series of essays about his experiences for William Dean Howells's
Atlantic Monthly. Published in 1874 and 1875, they were later
collected, supplemented, and published (in several editions) as A
Rebel's Recollections. Now, edited, and with a useful introduction by
Gaines M. Foster, the book is available as a paperback (Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press, 1996, a reprint of a 1959 Indiana
University Press edition). It is a very enjoyable read. Eggleston
romanticizes some things about the old South and the Confederacy and is
quite clearly comfortable with slavery. His attitudes, however, are
actually somewhat more complicated than those two by themselves would seem
to suggest. His book reminded me of the complexity of response which
Gone With the Wind requires. In addition, geniality shines through
Eggleston's pages, and real irony: these perhap compensate for the less
engaging attitudes he also displays. A book cannot be entirely unenjoyable
whose author, discussing the CSA's supply department and its work at Bull
Run, writes: Following hard on
the heels of the Philadelphia novels
I wrote about last month--by Richard Powell, Francis Biddle, and
Livingstone Biddle, Jr.--I recently read another, this one by Arthur R. G.
Solmssen and called Rittenhouse Square (Boston: Little, Brown,
1968). Lawyers seem to live at the heart of Philadelphia novels--based, at
any rate, on those of them I've now read--and this one is no exception.
Solmssen's hero is a lawyer named Benjamin Butler. (Is there any
significance to that choice of name? Another person who bore it--adorned,
in his case, by the sobriquet "Beast"--was the military governor of New
Orleans following the end of the Civil War. His overall historical
reputation is not entirely savory.) The novel follows precisely the model
of Richard Powell's The Philadelphian, which preceded it by twelve
years. Rittenhouse Square, like The Philadelphian, opens
with a lawyer about to make up his mind about his future, flashes back for
the bulk of the book to show us how he reached the point at which the book
opened, and ends with his decision. But this is a different Philadelphia
from Powell's--or from Frances Biddle's or Livingstone Biddle's, too.
Right off the bat, it is a Philadelphia with Jews, African-Americans, race
riots, and racist patrician lawyers. Some of the latter are even
crooks. This book is just as conventional as it sounds; yet it managed
to hold my attention utterly, perhaps by virtue of being so unlike
the other Philadelphia books I have recently read. I think it may really
be unlike them, too, in using Philadelphia simply as a locus. The
author knows the town well. But his book is about, not Philadelphia, but
lawyers. Had he wanted to write about lawyers in Chicago or Pittsburgh,
Solmssen might have needed more research to flesh out the "feel" for place
that this book exhibits. But he could have told essentially the same
story. I like midcentury American novels of manners, of which--like
Powell's--this novel is one. They give their readers the strong feeling of
realism, just like midcentury American plays do, while actually
inhabiting, or so it has always seemed to me, some sort of fairyland where
such tales seem real until you start to think about them. . . . Ben
is a nice young man: Sammy Glick without the ethnic baggage. In order to
make his way up the ladder, he is prepared always to do the right thing.
And, by god, he does. Joseph Kanon's Los
Alamos is a "mystery" set at Los Alamos during the days leading up to
the Manhattan Project's Trinity test (New York: Broadway Books, 1997,
$24.00). A Project security officer has been found dead in a Santa
Fé park, his pants pulled down around his legs. Apparently he has
been killed during a homosexual encounter outside a bar. Despite the
obviousness of the situation, Michael Connolly, a security officer
reporting directly to Groves and Oppenheimer, is assigned to investigate,
and--needless to say--appearances prove to be deceiving. Connolly slowly
realizes that he is looking not at a simple event with an explanation easy
to arrive at but at something involving the Army's distaste for anything
smacking of unorthodox sexuality, espionage, conflicting loyalties, the
horrors of contemporary Europe, and relations among people all of whom are
increasingly on edge with one another and themselves as the War comes to
an end and the Trinity test looms closer and closer. He himself falls
quickly into a relationship with the wife of one of the Project
scientists, who is off in the Jornada del Muerto preparing for the
test. No writer would set a mystery in this milieu, I think, without
having bigger fish to fry, and Kanon is no exception: this novel may be a
mystery, but it is a lot of other things, as well. Most of them are, as it
happens, well done. The murder victim, Karl Bruner, is, like many of the
scientists he tries to secure, a German-Jewish refugee. First imprisoned
by the Nazis as a Communist, released and sent to the Soviet Union, and
imprisoned again, his teeth have been removed--one by one, as long as he
has any--until he tells his Soviet captors all. (The plot hinges on
Bruner's role as murdered security agent, so I might as well admit that
the likelihood of accused Communist Jewish security officers at Los Alamos
strikes me as just a wee bit thin.) The twentieth century has not been
kind to Karl Bruner (and by the time the book opens he is merely one more
dead Jew). Fordham University graduate Connolly is a highly interesting
investigator to watch at work. Emma, with whom he has an affair, is a
complex creation. Even Oppenheimer, who has a small role, seems
convincingly depicted. Harder still, the novel's treatment of its
investigators and its spies is not at all as simplistic as one might have
expected. If Kanon's characters are well drawn, the author also manages to
concern his reader with the issues that concern them, and to do so, it
seemed to me, without in any way trivializing them--no small
accomplishment. Towards the book's end, Connolly, closing in on his
killer/spy, has a conversation with a man who is--or who may be--trying to
pick him up at an exhibition opening, or who is--or who may be--making an
assignation with him for the completion of an espionage assignment. He
can't tell which. I
literally happened upon a book of poetry by someone named Harriet Levin.
The Christmas Show (published in the Barnard New Women Poets Series
with an introduction by Eavan Boland [Boston: Beacon, 1997]), turns out, I
later learned, to have been written by someone who teaches across the
street from Penn, at Drexel, but I'd never met or heard of her. I picked
up the book to take a glance at it, read the title poem, and bought it: it
is a harrowing but beautiful book. standing on a pier docked beneath him, so
beautiful, you think it is the origin I've
read quite a bit this month that seemed more or less worth commenting on,
which makes this, alas, a somewhat longish Tout. Apologies . . . although
since no one has to read this stuff, what am I apologizing for? and
to whom? Oh, well. Brace: here goes. The 1996
death of Worcester, Massachusetts-born Irish novelist and short story
writer Mary Lavin stopped the voice of one of my favorite writers. Many
years ago I was put on to her work by an Irish-American writer, Elizabeth
Cullinan. As I remember, I had not, at the time, even heard her name: my
mistake. Lavin's stories repay every bit of the attention they require.
Because she spent much of a substantial lifetime writing them, they are a
coin that no reader will quickly spend. The occasion to mention her here
is a memorial essay, "Mary Lavin (1912-1996): A Tribute." Written by Julie
Anne Stevens, it appears in a recent issue of the Irish Journal of
Feminist Studies, 1:2 (Winter 1996), 25-34. If you do not know Lavin's
works, then, of course, bag the essay, find her books, and start reading.
If you do know Lavin, however, Stevens has produced a good
introduction to how a scholar might want to think about some of the issues
her stories and novels raise. I found her essay just the wee-est bit
chilly--by which, perhaps, I mean merely that it is "professional."
Cullinan made Lavin seem like a person, not like a "writer." But
Stevens is useful and suggestive, and her essay certainly makes clear that
one might well want to do some serious rereading of Lavin in the near
future. Elizabeth Cullinan, the writer just
mentioned from whom I first heard about Mary Lavin, is also someone whose
work, not well known, should be. Primarily a short story writer, most
often for The New Yorker (back when it was a "magazine for
people who read"), Cullinan has also written a novel or two. I would
recommend starting with her first novel, House of Gold (New York:
Houghton Mifflin, 1970), a book that is, in part, about the world's most
monstrous Jewish mother. Mrs. Portnoy could have taken lessons. Mind you,
a mother whose ambitions for her sons is that they become Jesuits is not
exactly your "average" Jewish mother--but, hey! you can't have
everything. House of Gold is a simply astonishing feat. If you like
it, you have more of Cullinan still ahead of you. One additional New York Irish writer always comes to mind
when I think of Elizabeth Cullinan, even though he was, in fact, a very
different kind of writer than she. He also had the bad taste to die, still
a young man, within minutes, so to speak, of publishing what I think is
his best book (this is "the luck of the Irish"?). It is a book
so good that nothing other than the admonition to run out and read
it, if you haven't already done so, will do. Sissy Sullivan is a cop's
widow. She has pension problems. She does not plan to take them sitting
down. The NYPD is about to hear from her. And that is the burden of Joe
Flaherty's Tin Wife (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1983), one of my
very favorite New York novels. Some time ago, I
wrote here about a then new book by a Port Huron alumnus, urban organizer,
poet, novelist, Berkeley sociologist (as he was then; he's at NYU now),
and media critic, Todd Gitlin.
There Gitlin argued that the left should take a less divisive approach to
the issues underlying the culture wars and related matters of
multiculturalism, issues that had upset those American propagandists and
professional agitators who specialize in discomfiting the academy and its
more or less left-leaning pillars. The divisiveness he criticized was
created, he suggested, not entirely by those who assault the academy but
also by those who, from within it, practice a rhetoric and a political
style that, rooted in identity politics, alienates those whom it confronts
and demonizes. That book, flawed but useful, was worth paying attention
to, even if one did not altogether agree with Gitlin's position. Now, in
an essay on "The Anti-Political Populism of Cultural Studies" that appears
in Dissent, 44:2 (Spring 1997), 77-82, Gitlin re-engages the
culture wars. Again he attacks those within the academy for the ways in
which they attempt to realize their political goals. Concerned
specifically with the practitioners of cultural studies, he argues that
they have essentially abdicated the political arena to the canaille
while remaining under the illusion that, in preaching to their students
and their colleagues, they are practicing politics. Not so, Gitlin says:
they need to speak to those people who are outside the academy, to
be willing to do the mundane and quotidian tasks that create the
mechanisms of political action, and--perhaps coincidentally?--to recall
that not all cultural activities are equal. This is not a position
likely to impress those who have been brought up (in a tradition deriving
largely from Gramsci) to think of themselves as "cultural workers"; nor is
Gitlin entirely free of either an unhappy tendency to blame the victim or
a nostalgic glance backwards at a now somewhat less than entirely tenable
sense of a culture rooted in "standards." Once again, I find myself
disliking the work . . . while feeling uncomfortably that it deserves
attention and thought. I was particularly struck by Gitlin's conclusion,
with which I am in more sympathy ("sympathy" is not the same thing
as "agreement") than I am with much else about this essay: The voice of a younger
Gitlin is heard in those words. Yet one also wonders what the younger
Gitlin would have made of the argument this Gitlin makes. The same issue of Dissent that prints Gitlin's
essay includes two others I also thought worth reading, even if one could
not swallow them whole. Morris Dickstein, in "The New York Intellectuals"
(pp. 83-86), speaks nostalgically to the same issues that Gitlin also
evokes. Dickstein briefly recreates the "model" created by his New York
intellectuals, essentially his teachers at Columbia in the good old days:
Trilling, Dupee, Chase, Hofstadter, Bell, Schapiro, Mills (that is, the
boyis). Their model showed us "how to connect intelligence with
politics, how to see a work of art in its social framework, while
respecting its autonomy and complexity" (p. 86). Sounds terrific. What
ever happened to something that wonderful? God, but it's a
degenerate world out there. The other essay is by
Marshall Berman, whose 1982 All That Is Solid Melts Into Air: The
Experience of Modernity (rpt. New York: Penguin, 1988) remains one of
my favorite books on modernism and postmodernism. "Picasso Surviving" (pp.
87-91) speaks directly to my own feelings when I visited "Picasso and
Portraiture," the Picasso exhibition on show last year at New York's
Museum of Modern Art and Berman's primary subject, and also earlier that
year when, in Paris late in the winter of 1996, I visited the Musée
Picasso, even more stunningly revelatory for me. In both places, an artist
who had become somewhat overdone was--for me, at any rate--renewed and
refreshed: his vitality and importance became clear to me as they had not
been since I was very young. But Berman also speaks about some other
recent treatments of Picasso in which the argument--based largely on his
relationships with women--"that Picasso was a Bastard turns out to be the
point" (p. 90). Berman does not entirely dispute this view. He complicates
it, however, in a way that serves perhaps to ameliorate it. In neither
sense is his essay always easy to take. This is another piece that is
short, to the point, and provoking. Does one have to agree in order also
to learn from and like? As it happens, I managed last month to see "Picasso: The Early Years,
1892-1906," this year's blockbuster Picasso exhibition, on view
at Washington's National Gallery of Art (where it was on exhibition
through July 27) and heading after that to the Museum of Fine Arts in
Boston (where it will open on September 10, 1997 and close on January 4,
1998; the address above will take you to the Boston website, the NGA's
apparently no longer in existence). This is another exhibition that makes
it possible to reevaluate Picasso, and I loved it. In Washington or in
Boston, I will see it again. It was also the first exhibition I have
been to--the first anything, for that matter--at which I suddenly
felt, viscerally, that the twentieth century is now a matter for
history. It's time, as someone remarked to a friend some weeks ago, that
we start teaching literature courses that deal with the end of the
twentieth century. Yes, he replied, taking her in a sense she had not
intended: it is dead, isn't it? I'm not sure about "dead." But it sure
is over. Much more obviously over--but still
fun to read about!--is the long period of earth's history during which
dinosaurs roamed. I've just finished a book about an early dinosaur
(rather a small one, in fact) called coelophysis, who stands more
or less ancestrally at the late Triassic base of what would go on to
become, throughout the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods, the line of many
of the larger dinosaurs whom we know and love. Edwin H. Colbert, the
book's author, was for forty years a paleontologist at the American Museum
of Natural History; he also taught geology at Columbia. He retired in
1968, moving on to the Museum of Northern Arizona. Columbia published
The Little Dinosaurs of Ghost Ranch in 1995. It is a lovely book.
Concentrating as it does on one ancestral species, it may seem a bit
specialized or narrowly focused. While it is indeed both those things, it
is also a wonderful introduction to the ways in which paleontological
fieldwork, thought, and science are carried out, written by a person who
has seen and contributed enormously to a surprisingly hefty amount of the
discipline's two hundred or so year-old history. In part because Colbert
can contextualize his own subject so well, the book never seems too
contained. This is no suffocating work written by a specialist for other
specialists. It is educational in the best sense. Its author insistently
indicates the human processes and dimensions of paleontological work while
also opening his subject out to a world of larger controvery, and thus he
makes his subject just as interesting and vital for the reader as it is
for him. Two great English-language writers whose work is known to
me--the English novelist Anthony Powell and the American novelist Mildred
Walker--were born in 1905. So was the paleontologist Edwin Colbert. The
number of writers of any kind born in that year and still alive,
let alone still producing, is not large (the third volume of Powell's
Journals is just out from Heinemann, and I await my copy eagerly).
Colbert is a paleontologist, not a "great writer." But he writes well
enough, thank you very much, for the fascinating stories he has to tell.
In that sense, he keeps good company. More to the point, his book will
give you good company. Colbert's book looks at
an animal that comes from the early period of the dinosaurs. I also
recently read a new book about the end of that era, one that discusses the
discovery of the iridium anomaly at the K-T boundary and its implications.
The "K-T boundary" is the stratum that demarcates the end of the
Cretaceous and the beginning of the Paleocene--that is, the end of the
dinosaur era and the beginnings of the age of mammals: ultimately, us.
Walter Alvarez wrote the book, called--dreadfully: how could
he let them do this to his book?--T. rex and the Crater of Doom
(Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1997). I felt, as I
considered buying this book in a Bryn Mawr store, the spirit of Indiana
Jones standing beside me. It said to me, "Don't buy this book." I did
anyway, and--it turns out--am glad I did. Alvarez is one of the
discoverers of the anomaly. (He is also the son of Nobel Prize-winning
physicist Luis W. Alvarez, whose nuclear background enabled him to work
with Walter on the interpretation of the anomaly. I read Luis W.'s own
autobiography some time ago; it, too, is an interesting book [Alvarez:
Adventures of a Physicist, New York: Basic, 1987].) A geologist,
Walter Alvarez eventually proposed that the iridium anomaly provides
evidence of the impact of an extraterrestrial comet or meteor on the
earth, a catastrophic intersection of two celestial bodies that produced a
kind of "nuclear winter." During that cold spell, the majority of
dinosaurs and many other animals and plants--about half of the known phyla
and perhaps as many as ninety per cent of the species in existence at the
end of the Cretaceous--went extinct. The book deals with the ways in
which this proposal was developed, received, contested, and defended. It
ends with the discovery, about a decade later--a discovery that Alvarez
regards as conclusive in this matter, although careful readers will try to
recall that the larger jury has not yet returned a verdict--of an impact
crater, now largely submerged in the Gulf of Mexico, of the right size and
date. As a kind of epilogue, Alvarez reminds us of Comet Shoemaker-Levy 9,
which struck Jupiter in July of 1994, indicating that such cosmic
intersections as the Alvarez team hypothesized for Earth sixty-five
million years ago continue to happen even now. Alvarez's bigger point is
that geologists must integrate into the uniformitarianism they so long and
successfully adopted, as a counter to creationist mythologies, a
recognition that catastrophes, too, cannot be ignored in considering long
stretches of earth's history. But the story Walter Alvarez tells will
interest even readers who couldn't care less about such arguments. Like
Colbert, Alvarez is not a great writer. No matter. He is a major
participant in one of the great geological discoveries and controversies
of our time. It is a genuine pleasure to have the story told now in his
own voice. Like Colbert's book, Alvarez's, too, illuminates both what it
is that scientists do and how they think. It is thus a great
gift to people like me curious about both. Obasan is the first novel by the Canadian writer Joy
Kogawa (Toronto 1981, Boston 1982). Simply stunning, it is also
excruciatingly painful to read. Kogawa's book recounts the dismemberment
of the lives of ordinary Canadians. But the word "ordinary" obscures the
issue, for her characters, Canadians of Japanese (and hence
"extraordinary") origin, were, like America's Japanese citizens, forcibly
removed from their homes and businesses and sent into internal exile,
first in concentration camps, then in environments both harsh and
unfriendly, following the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbor and other
British and American colonial sites in Asia. Unlike Japanese citizens in
the U.S., moreover, once the War was over Canada's were not
permitted to return to their old homes or towns. Familes, exiled once
already, were exiled a second time and, in the course of this process,
broken up even more completely than they had been broken up the first time
around. This unpleasant tale is told from the perspective of Megumi
Naomi Nakane, originally from Vancouver and now a primary school teacher
in Alberta. Her perspective is not unified. Not only is her resistance to
learning (or relearning) the past of her own family, and of herself, a
major complication of her point of view, but also the reader is made to
see events both as Nomi saw them as a child, dimly and fearfully, and as
she comes to understand them anew as a woman in her later thirties, still
severely scarred (and scared) by her experiences and her losses. Her
father died of tuberculosis (essentially untreated) shortly after the
War's end. Her mother had gone to Japan in September of 1941 to tend an
ailing relative. Still there when, after December 7, Japan's attacks sent
Canada to war in the Pacific as well as in Europe, she could not return
home. In 1945, in order to assist another relative who had just had a
baby, she guessed right and left Tokyo before the March 9 raids, but
guessed wrong simultaneously, since the relative lived in Nagasaki . . .
and she was still in that city on August 9th. Severely injured by the
atomic bomb explosion that day, she could not bring herself to return her
severely scarred body to Canada, nor would she permit her Canadian
relatives to let her children know what had happened to her. As a result,
Nomi and her brother Steven were raised by their aunt ("Obasan") and
uncle. His death precipitates the novel's action. A reader will easily
see how schematically Kogawa's novel works and, perhaps, criticize it for
that problem (as well as for some others). But her patient accretion of
minute, mundane details of racism, persecution, and governmental turpitude
and pusillanimity, and her "set piece" conclusion, in which the reader
finally learns something of what it was like to be, not over the
bomb ("our" normal perspective) but under it, give the book a power
that cannot be overlooked. Obasan is well worth reading and
savoring. I read Itsuka, the sequel to Obasan, in
an edition published in Toronto by Viking in 1992. This book--its title is
the Japanese word for "someday"--takes Nomi from the death of her Obasan
in 1972 through the 1988 Parliamentary passage of an act of redress by the
Canadian government for wartime acts against its own citizens of Japanese
ancestry. We watch as the icejam in which Nomi has protectively immersed
herself since childhood begins slowly to thaw. Her own healing parallels
that of the Japanese Canadian community and, more important, of the larger
Canadian community of which her small group is a part. This book seems
slightly less "digested" than the first, its events even more schematic,
even more didactic. I found it immensely moving nonetheless, a book that
surmounts its own flaws magnificently. Just as a sidelight, one of the
things that has interested me in many of the Indiana writers I've been
reading recently is how they integrate their various brands of
Christianity with the fictional worlds they create. Kogawa's fictional
world is similarly one that is thoroughly imbued with a Christian
perspective. This perspective makes it, for me, even more exotic than its
rootedness in a Japanese-Canadian ethnicity. The desire of some of the
nisei and sansei she writes about to disappear as "Japanese" is a motif
familiar from other immigrant writer traditions. The presence of the
Church in the lives she represents was, by contrast, completely
unexpected. In addition, not only the Christian but also the intensely and
involved political element in her work makes it seem very different
indeed from a novel about the same themes one imagines an American writer
producing. I called Kogawa's books "schematic"; but it occurs to me that
this initial reaction may reflect not a "literary" response to Kogawa's
novels but rather an American's reaction to a non-American politics.
Canada may be close. But it's different. Another book about prejudices in action has just climbed
onto the Times bestseller list as I write (May 25), which (in one
sense) does not surprise me. It is Pete Hamill's Snow in August
(Boston: Little, Brown, 1997), the story of eleven year-old Michael
Devlin, who lives with his widowed mother in a working-class Irish
neighborhood in 1947 Brooklyn. (His father was killed in Belgium during
the Battle of the Bulge.) At the tail end of a December blizzard, Michael
has earned some money shovelling snow. Thus he is enjoying himself in a
candy store when Frankie McCarthy, neighborhood tough, beats the candy
store owner and neighborhood kike, Mr. G., into a pulp, leaving him in a
coma from which the novel never has him emerge. Michael shortly becomes
the shabbos goy at a decaying neighborhood synagogue. Its rabbi, Judah
Hirsch, is a refugee from Prague whose wife died during the
Holocaust. "Is her name Judith?" "No." The rabbi
paused, "Leah. Her name is Leah." He stared at the framed photograph for a
long time. "My wife." "She's very beautiful." "Yes," said Rabbi
Hirsch. "But she's dead." "I'm sorry, Rabbi," the boy said. "Is hard
for a boy to understand, death." "My father's dead too," Michael said.
"He was killed in the war." The rabbi turned away from his wife's
photograph. "Excuse," he said. "I am a fool. I think I am the only
person with someone dead." "It's okay, Rabbi," Michael said. "No.
Death is not okay for someone so young. At least I, I . . . " He couldn't
find the words. "I am very sorry." (p.
68) Nonetheless, the book
suffers, for its first 290 pages, from a treacly sentimentalism that
blunts the force of its depiction of a neighborhood ruled by its own worst
products, Frankie McCarthy their symbol. ("McCarthy" seems, for Hamill, a
name usable here because more tarnished by Tailgunner Joe than redeemed by
Clean Gene.) For its last thirty-five pages, however, Hamill's book pulls
a stunt that recalls D. M. Thomas's The White Hotel. Thomas
similarly drew a portrait (the massacre at Babi Yar) so vile that the only
escape his imagination could offer its reader was a retreat into fantasy.
With far less power, Hamill does the same thing, bringing the Golem into
Brooklyn--no, I'm not making this up!--to fight Frankie McCarthy
and his gang. "Why now?" Hirsch asks himself, "Why not then?" If the
fictional assumption of the novel--that Hirsch, like the Rabbi Loew, has
the power to make the Golem--is at all believable, then this is the
question on which even the book's fantasy founders: "I was not pure
enough. . . . I did not believe enough. Maybe, God I did not love enough"
(p. 322). 'Scuse me? This is the explanation for the death of Leah
. . . and six million other Jews . . . and six million other victims of
the camps . . . and for all the dead of the European war, including
Michael's father? What could one possibly say about this crap that would
be as bad as it deserves? In the context of a "realistic" novel, it turns
out that Hamill's Jews possess great magical powers. I'm excited by
this prospect; I certainly hope some great secrets come to me. Soon. But
if this is philosemitism, then I don't like my would-be friends much
better than my would-be enemies. Moreover, the secret powers that Jews
seem to possess don't actually save them from anything serious. (Well,
okay, Frankie McCarthy is "serious"; but he sure isn't large-scale.)
Always the victim, they can't actually use their powers to save
themselves from Hitler, and it's their own timorous fault: they lack
purity, belief, and sufficient love of God. So, the novel seems to say,
"Take Hitler, you schmucks: you deserved him." This stuff is drivel,
meretricious drivel. In Kogawa's books, wronged peoples analyze their
political and social milieu and act to change it. In Hamill's, facing
personal rather than grand scale problems, they resort to magic--and it
works! Wow. Gimme dat ol' time religion. Alan Isler wrote well about Sir Philip Sidney when he was
teaching at Queens College-CUNY. Many years ago, when I worked on Sidney
myself, I had to read him--and enjoyed him, odd though that may seem. Now
retired from teaching and living in London (he was born in England), Isler
has taken up fiction. His second novel, Kraven Images
(Bridgehampton, NY: Bridge Works, 1996), was the first I read. (I read it
in the London reprint [Vintage, 1997], but the book is now available in an
American paperback edition from Penguin, 1996, $11.95.) Deeply acerbic and
deeply funny, it concerns what I might as well go ahead and call an
"academic pricaro," one Nicholas Kraven. (In defining this literary type
for myself, I think of more or less similar characters in novels by, for
instance, Alan Lelchuk and Howard Jacobson.) Nicko teaches Shakespeare
at Mosholu College, a mythical school located not far, presumably, from
where I grew up (just west of the north end of Mosholu Parkway and down
the hill from St. Patrick's Home for the Aged--where, once a year, if you
were lucky, you got to see Spelly show up to say hello to what he would
not have called the alter ca-cas). Mosholu sounds a bit like
Lehman College (in my day, it was--one word--"Hunteruptown"), another
branch, like Queens, of CUNY. Nicholas is neither a nice man nor a model
academic. Somewhat priapic, and a believer in equal opportunity in this
respect at least, he has lost whatever touch he originally might have had
with the academic life. In addition he finds himself increasingly out of
sympathy with the revolting young of 1974, when this tale is set. Isler
depicts the spring and summer of that year, a short span of time during
which things begin to turn very sour indeed for Nicko. How sour we
come to realize only slowly. Early on, Isler's book seems merely
funny--wildly funny, to be sure--as, for instance, when an elderly
student, Mr. Feibelman, explains to Nicko the evidentiary basis for his
epiphanic realization that the historical Merlin was a
Jew: 'Nothing
at all.' 'You kidding me, perfesser? Okay, okay. Here.' He scribbled on
the second half [of the sheet]. 'It ends like this' . . . : BOREAS PYRRHI
HOC OPHINIUM. 'Well, now what d'you say?' 'You've lost me,
Feibelman.' Feibelman's face registered his amazement. 'But there it is,
in front of your nose, the Hebrew blessing over wine! Baruch atta
adonai, and so on.' (pp. 22-23) Structurally, this shift may be The Flaw
that novels are supposed to have. It didn't matter much as far as I was
concerned. I thought Kraven Images was a howlingly funny book--and
thought so despite the fact that, having taught in the CUNY system myself
at the time during which this novel is set, I don't sympathize with
Kraven's view of the 1970s academy. I went backwards in Isler's
novelistic career from Nicholas Kraven to Otto Korner (né
Körner), the character who provides the central point of view in
Isler's first novel, The Prince of West End Avenue (Bridgehampton,
NY: Bridge Works, 1994; this book too is now available from Penguin, 1995,
$9.95). The Prince of West End Avenue is so breathtakingly
wonderful that it seems almost to need no word other than a "run, don't
walk, get a copy, and read it." I liked Kraven Images a lot. This
is an even better book. An eighty-three year-old resident of the Emma
Lazarus, a retirement home for the elderly located on West End Avenue, Mr.
Korner is involved in the production, by the Emma Lazarus Old Vic, of
Hamlet. Unfortunately, several of the directors and actors
interrupt the planning and rehearsals by requiring removal to the spot,
just south of Mineola, where many Emma Lazarus alumni take up "permanent
subterranean residence." Other problems also arise. An actress, for
example, objects to references to Christian burial. She convinces the
director to implement some slight alterations of Billy Bard's
words: "Well, what is my line now?" "Simple.
You say, 'Is she to be buried in Mineola?' This same word you substitute
in the other places." "Wonderful!" says Hamburger. "Brilliant! Mineola,
as everyone knows, is just south of Elsinore." "That's what you
want me to say? 'Is she to be buried in Mineola?'" "Perfect. You got it.
A little more emphasis on the she, but otherwise, perfect." (p.
41) But it is not only these things.
Isler's epigraph quotes Polonius on the varieties of mixed genres to which
theater is open. He knows exactly what he is doing and mixes genres here
himself, far more controlledly than in his second novel. Thus, while
preparations for Hamlet are under way, Mr. Korner is also seeking a
letter stolen from his room and written to him before the War--not the
Second but the First World War--when, a precocious poet, his first
(and last) book of poems attracted the notice of one Rainer Maria Rilke.
This search pushes Mr. Korner to reflections on a life that he knows must
soon be coming to its end. That life has taken him from Berlin to Henry
Carr-like sightings of Lenin, Joyce, and Tzara in wartime Zurich, to a
failed love affair there, to marriage and a child back in Berlin, to the
camps, to the shores of Palestine where the British intercept his refugee
boat, to Cyprus, to New York, to the New York Public Library, to a second
marriage, and, at last, to the Emma Lazarus, Mineola and permanence in
sight. Otto Korner's is, in short, an echt twentieth-century
life. I recently read Henri-Jean
Martin's The French Book: Religion, Absolutism, and Readership,
1585-1715, trans. Paul Saenger and Nadine Saenger, Johns Hopkins
Symposia in Comparative History, 22 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University
Press, 1996) for a formal review that will appear in
Rare Book and Manuscript Librarianship. I approached the book
(which barely reaches one hundred pages of text) skeptically. It looks
very much as if it will prove to be "A Child's Garden of Martin"--that is,
a sort of Reader's Digest-style condensed version of Martin's
earlier (and magisterial) studies in this field. I was, however, surprised
to find myself thinking, after I'd finished reading it, that there is,
after all, much to be said for the power and suggestiveness of the short
form. To my surprise, therefore, I recommend this book with great warmth
to anyone, even those who are not specialists in
seventeenth-century France and early modern book history, interested in
the ways in which book history issues are intertwined with just about
every other issue that might conceivably excite an intellectual or social
historian. George W. S. Trow first published
Within the Context of No Context as an article in The New
Yorker. It then became a very short book in 1981. Now reissued, it has
a new thirty-seven page introduction, "Collapsing Dominant" (New York:
Atlantic Monthly Press, 1997, $11.00 paperback). Despite the addition,
Within the Context of No Context remains very short. It is also
extremely angry. Trow wants to understand, first, what happened to the
members of his class in his generation, people who grew up in places like
Cos Cob, Connecticut, and Bedford, New York, and attended Phillips Exeter
and (it would seem) an unnamed Ivy not Yale: that is,
upper-middleclass WASPS, during the span of years that is, essentially, my
span, too (Trow is a year younger than I). In this respect, the book plays
variations on some of the themes also explored, although from rather
different perspectives, in Calvin Trillin's Remembering Denny. Trow's was
a generation with entitlements and expectations. Not many of them were
fulfilled. But Trow's book is also, second, an enraged exploration of
what he regards as one of the causes of that unfulfilled destiny: a
cultural (or, rather, an anti-cultural) force that shifted the
grounds of American society from beneath the feet of the expectant
suburban gentry. His evil genius is television and its attendant culture
of celebrity: an anti-historical anti-culture that robs events of meaning
by eviscerating them of their context and people of their meaning by
eviscerating them of their dignity. It has, in addition, made meaningful
political action increasingly difficult by virtue of its elimination of
the middle distance, that space, as Trow describes it, that lies between
the (increasingly infantilized) individual and the huge, anaesthetized,
two hundred million-strong mass. One does
not often get to read a writer, these days, so uncompromisingly
reactionary. A book that longs for old-fashioned, now impossible
standards, and that also lives in hope of the demise of that television
culture it abhors, Trow's brief book reminded me, perhaps oddly--okay, I
admit it: perhaps very oddly--not of the Theodor W. Adorno or Guy
Debord to whose books blurbs on the back of the paperback advert, but
rather of the voice--stopped suddenly one day at Auschwitz by a bullet in
the neck--of Friedrich Percyval Reck-Malleczewen. Reck-Malleczewen was a
Prussian aristocrat so conservative that he literally could not
understand why the Nazis would actually harm Jews. Grovelling
headwaiters, he thought the Nazis, speaking of Herr Hitler himself ("a
headwaiter waiting for his tip") in his wonderful Diary of a Man in
Despair. No one likes Jews, of course: everyone knows that.
But why do anything quite so low as to harm them? Don't like them,
don't go to their stores. But why throw rocks through their store windows?
He actually wrote this question in his diary in the days following
Kristallnacht. I remember reading much of this book years ago
during a flight to New Orleans. The person sitting in the same row as I
asked as we disembarked what I had been reading that made me laugh so much
that the seat shook--and, when I told her, looked at me as if I were a
monster. (The book, incidentally, was published in New York in 1970 by
Macmillan; Paul Rubens was the translator.) Trow is by no means as out
of touch with the gruesome reality that surrounds him as was
Reck-Malleczewen. He knows very well indeed that his class and its
standards have croaked, that his generation has failed to keep its head
above the wave. He even thinks he knows why. He just can't stand it. And
he is so damned smart that he is worth reading on these topics, whether
you buy his conservative analysis or not. I will add here that when, on
the morning after I wrote this passage, I heard the intellectuals'
darlings on NPR tell their listeners, as if these were "news" stories,
first, about something called Roseanne, and then about the "repositioning"
(Orwell, thou shouldst be living at this hour!) of Diet Coke ("You are
what you drink"), I myself became even more inclined to buy into
Trow's attitudes than I had been in the slightly cooler atmosphere of the
mercifully NPR-less night before. This overlong and overwrought sentence
refers to the Morning Edition broadcast of May 20. "You could" (quoting
the immortal "You know, me, Al") "look it up"--in case you think I
am making this garbage up. Trust me. I couldn't. And one further
addition I simply can not resist: Trow's book provided an occasion for the
newspaper for people who move their lips when they read--which some of us
remember printing entire government documents or public policy
addresses, or even whole books by people like Winston Churchill!
(this, to sure, in the days before its punchification)--Trow's book
allowed this newspaper inadvertently (?) to indicate its concern for those
of its readers who may be unable to get the point even when their
lips are in motion. Reporting on several of Manhattan's independent
bookstores in its issue of May 30, Anne Roiphe,
Times-reporter-for-a-day and writing here about Posman's (a shop at
1 University Place on Washington Square), mentioned the "large demand"
earlier in May for Trow's book. She then carefully explained to her
readers that Within the Context of No Context "is not an academic
book but requires a fascination with language and a patience with cultural
ideas" (p. C16). Oh. So much for Times readers. What can one
say, after one has said, "Uh, duh?" A
different kind of "Philadelphia novel" than others I have been reading for
the past few months is the one I recently finished by Ann Rinaldi. It was
not only highly recommended but also loaned to me by one of my students.
Finishing Becca: A Story About Peggy Shippen and Benedict Arnold, a
historical novel about Philadelphia during the Revolution, is intended for
"young adult" readers. I liked it. Rinaldi's subject is the Edward
Shippen household seen from the perspective of a young maid, Becca Syng,
during the period when Edward's daughter Peggy is involved, first with
John Andre, and, later, with Benedict Arnold--not a particularly
salubrious crew, and one that sorely tries Becca, whose background is not
Loyalist but Rebel. Some of Rinaldi's themes mesh quite interestingly with
those of a very different sort of book I am in the middle of reading (Alan
Taylor's book about William Cooper)--but, whatever may be said about her
historical accuracy, the book is at once an enjoyable story about Becca's
coming of age and a depiction of a genuine monster in Peggy Shippen (a
believable monster, as it happens). Whatever the age of its
intended audience, it is a book I enjoyed and one I would unhesitatingly
give a junior high school or high school reader. It is available in
paperback as a Gulliver Book in Harcourt Brace's American Colonies Series
(San Diego, 1994, $4.95). By this point, I
suppose, doing so may represent mere stubbornness, but Indiana's literary
siren call is one I continue to heed. My most recent venture into the
wilds of Indiana fiction took me to a historical novel, Alice of Old
Vincennes, written by Maurice Thompson. Although this book is now
available in Indiana University Press's Library of Indiana Classics, I
read the edition first published in Indianapolis by Bowen-Merrill in 1900,
with illustrations by F. C. Yohn. Thompson's tale, set in the years 1778
and 1779, relates the coming of the American Revolution to the frontier
French town of Vincennes, on the banks of the Wabash, and taken from
British military hands by the two hundred or so men of George Rogers
Clark's "army," marching one hundred and seventy miles east from St. Louis
in order to do so. This tale is intrinsically interesting in and of
itself. In addition, as its novelistic core, Thompson also gives his
reader the love story of Alice Roussillon, née Tarleton, an orphan
of English and Protestant background raised in Vincennes by one of its
leading citizens, and Lieutenant Fitzhugh Beverly of Virginia. The love
story is a frame within which Thompson weaves his patriotic themes. Making
Indiana a place in which rebellion flamed as hotly as ever it did in the
original thirteen colonies, he presents the frontier actions of Clark's
army as an act eventually to ensure American imperial sway from sea to
shining sea. Alice of Old Vincennes is a fascinating book in its
nationalism. It is also fascinating for its racism. Thompson does not
like Native Americans at all: "if Alice had been asked to tell just how
she felt toward the Indian she had labored so hard to save, she would
promptly have said, 'I loathe him as I do a toad!'" (p. 48). This same
Indian will save Alice and her beloved Beverly later in the novel; for his
pains, however, he will reap the novelistic reward, within a matter of
very few pages, of being scalped, an end for which Thompson's authorial
voice suggests not the slightest of pangs. Thompson has one more slight
problem with his Vincennes setting. He really doesn't like Frogs or Roman
Catholics very much, either (one reason that Alice is not really a
Roussillon but is instead a Tarleton). Even if it had no other virtues,
Alice would serve as a short course in stereotypes of and epithets
for all those folks for whom Thompson's tolerance is not long. In fact,
his book proves unpleasant in a surprisingly large number of ways. Even
its prose is rather more rhetorically ornate than modern tastes tend to
appreciate, one more aspect of Thompson's book that does not help it much.
Yet even after all these factors are taken into account, I confess that I
read Alice of Old Vincennes all the way through with real
interest--even though my interests may not have been exactly
the sort for which the author might have hoped. It's a pretty
peculiar performance, but I'm not sorry to have encountered
it. Another midwestern novel--but northern
Minnesota this time, not Indiana--I've only belatedly found is Jon
Hassler's Staggerford (1977; I read the 1986 Ballantine reprint).
This novel covers a week in the life of a thirty-five-year-old high school
English teacher in Staggerford, a small town somewhere between Duluth and
Fargo. A plot summary would spoil the book, and no excerpt could
sufficiently indicate its author's mastery of tone: desert-dry humor,
quiet concern for his characters and their lives, respect for their
interests and their foibles, even when they are at their worst. For a
number of years--too few, as it happens--I taught a course together with a
person who comes from the Dakotas and lives in Minneapolis. Were he a
writer of novels, this is the sort of novel he would have written. It's a
book I picked up by accident. I'd just picked up--and put back down--a new
novel by the author when I bumbled into this paperback. I picked it up,
too--and then figured, more or less, "Why not?" (Since I hadn't actually
expected to do anything quite so ridiculous as to read it, for I
was in the middle of something else, there is surely an answer to that
normally rhetorical question.) Staggerford is terrific, the
interruption was worth it, and you might like this book, too. Another midwestern writer with a new book--this book one
that I did not put back down when I found it in the bookstore--is,
nowadays, an alter ca-ca, a neoconservative kvetch, and a leading
representative of an idea of "culture" for which I don't care. It
therefore pains me to admit that I inhaled Saul Bellow's latest little
book, a completely captivating love story called The Actual (New
York: Viking, 1997), with great pleasure. Everything about it. And
recommend it highly. Goddammit to hell, I detest opinions that are
contradicted by facts. If I were to recommend a
memoir about a Massachusetts ethnic kind of guy who lives with a bunch of
dogs, some falcons, and an older WASP woman in western New Mexico where
the two of them enjoy hunting and cockfights and where she eventually
dies, you'd probably think less of my taste than you already do. But
anyone who has read this far probably no longer cares . . . so let me tell
you about Stephen Bodio's Querencia (Livingston, Montana: Clark
City Press, 1990), a book with all the virtues already enumerated--and
then some! I really can't and won't apologize for this tout:
Bodio's book is gorgeous. It is as stunning an evocation of a western
place--Magdalena, New Mexico, and its environs in west-central New
Mexico--as John Graves's magnificent Goodbye to a River (New York:
Knopf, 1960)--the Brazos and north central Texas, Richard Shelton's
beautiful Going Back to Bisbee (Tucson: University of Arizona
Press, 1992)--Bisbee and southeastern Arizona, and Reyner Banham's
astonishing Scenes in America Deserta (Salt Lake City: Peregrine
Smith/Gibbs M. Smith, 1982)--the Sonora Desert: three books so utterly
wonderful that they need no recommendation from me at all. In part because
Bodio's sense of New Mexico begins in Socorro (Magdalena is twenty-six
miles to the "right" of Socorro [p. 4--he's got you coming into Socorro
from the north]), it even recalled for me a very different book--a novel,
not a memoir--by the now much neglected midcentury American writer, Conrad
Richter. Tacey Cromwell (New York: Knopf, 1942) concerns a whore
with a heart of gold. Richter's tale begins in Kansas, wends its way
through Socorro, and winds up in Bisbee. It's well worth reading, too,
although for different reasons than Graves, Shelton, Banham--or
Bodio. Somehow or other, Querencia must have provoked a review
that got it onto my want list around the time it was published. But I
failed to recall what it was about and so, when I looked for it, I looked
for it in fiction, thus almost insuring that I would never locate it.
"Almost": but I did finally find a used copy early in May, placed
in the fiction section of the store where I acquired it. The bookseller
must not have looked at the book any more closely than I had looked at the
review. I read it almost immediately; and it was not an easy book to put
down. Memoir, love story, a study of place and of lives rooted in place:
so much of Querencia begs for quotation that I think it safest not
even to begin to quote any of it. It needs instead to be read whole. And
it deserves to be.
I
know why I bought Paul Shepheard's new book, The Cultivated
Wilderness: or, What is Landscape?, a book published in the spring of
1997 by MIT Press as part of its Graham Foundation/MIT Press Series in
Contemporary Architectural Discourse (a paperback [$12.50] appeared
simultaneously with the hardbound edition). Because its last chapter
discusses the western front--that is, Flanders, the major western
battleground of the First World War--and I have been thinking about
devising a course on the literature of war and, in English, at any rate,
the literature of World War I cannot be passed over in silence in such a
course, the book seemed like a natural for me. I did wait a month
before actually buying it. But when I looked at it the second time, I
could not say no yet again. What I don't know is why I picked up
the book to look at in the first place. Unlike a friend who plays flypaper
in a world where architecture books act as flies, landscape and
architecture are not subjects I read in very often. I must have picked it
up purely by accident. If so, it was a very lucky one. Shepheard's book
is among the most exciting I have read in a very long time--even though I
still don't quite know what it is. Is it what, as a university
press publication, one might suppose it to be, a work of "scholarship"? is
it instead, as, having read it, I now almost think, a very nearly
poetic meditation on the interactions between human beings and their
environment? I can say neither with certainty. What it is, "certainly,"
is a set of essays that consider, among other things, what "wilderness"
might mean to the human beings who interact with, live in, or stamp their
presence over it; the seven wonders of the ancient world; the human
presence in Antactica; Scotland; Flevoland and the Dutch polders; the
relationship between London and its surroundings; and--in its last
chapter--the western front. Each essay is characterized first and foremost
by the author's idiosyncratic and playful voice. He writes like a cranky
and opinionated human being speaking to other human beings, not like an
academic ghost-in-the-book-as-machine addressing some equally dessicated
conception of an academic reader. The essays are shot through with
conversations (invented? recorded?), little dramas, vignettes, and a
basketful of other irrelevancies--although they never turn out to be as
irrelevant as you suppose. Each is also characterized by flashes of
insight that strike you like lightbulbs going off at unpredictable
intervals, page after page. Many years ago, an English professor
named Robert Stevick wrote an essay attempting to define the "form" of a
genre called "the anatomy." It had, back then, recently been made "famous"
all over again by a Canadian name of Frye. Stevick's examples, as I
recall, included not only melancholick Burton, more or less obviously, but
also Swift's Tale of a Tub, Tristram Shandy, Sartor
Resartus, Moby Dick, A la recherche du temps perdus, and
Ulysses. At an MLA meeting in the late 1970s, I proposed that
Anthony Powell's Dance to the Music of Time would be better
understood in reference to this genre than if it were read (as it usually
is) against the standards of realistic fiction; I still believe this
argument is worth making in a more formal way than I did then, as an aside
in a different argument, or here, as an assertion. Whatever else it may
be, Shepheard's Cultivated Wilderness is the most recent major
contribution to the anatomy genre I have come across. I also think it is
simply brilliant. My pleasure in the book sent me looking, the day I
finished it, for Shepheard's first book, What is Architecture? An Essay
on Landscapes, Buildings, and Machines (MIT Press, 1994; paperback
$9.95). I took me twenty-four hours to find a copy, which proved a bit
frustrating. When I finally got my mitts on it, this earlier book also won
me over. Irons in the Fire, a new collection of essays by
John McPhee, has just been published by Farrar (1997). All appeared
originally in The New Yorker. I am not sure they read as well here
as they did there. I felt a certain tiredness and self-indulgence in these
pieces, particularly the last one, about Plymouth Rock, where one never
quite gets the feeling that McPhee has any idea at all of why he is
telling his readers the stuff he tells us. These qualities do not sort
well with my memories of earlier McPhee. Nor, except for the title essay
(it deals with the branding of horses in Nevada), did the essays gathered
here stay with me very long after I'd finished the book. Still and all,
they were fun enough . . . and weak McPhee remains better than a lot of
other journalism. For several months, I have
been slowly reading through Gene Stratton-Porter's novels as part of what
has proven to be an ongoing Indianan fit; this month, I read three of
them. Michael O'Halloran is a 1915 Stratton-Porter novel now
republished in the Library of Indiana Classics by Indiana University Press
(1997). As has turned out to be true for me with virtually all of her
novels, I found it very nearly irresistible. Michael O'Halloran
retails the Horatio Alger-like tale of a plucky newsboy. After the death
of his hardworking mother, he succeeds through grit, hard work, and square
dealing not only in rescuing himself from the slum streets of
"Multiopolis," a large city in Indiana, but also in caring for a
spine-damaged orphan who falls into his way after her grandmother's
alcohol-induced demise. The family within whose warm and capacious bosom
Michael and Peaches are ensconced by the book's end is perfectly
Dickensian. Indeed, the book reminds one of what Dickens might have looked
like if, first, he had produced an even more sentimental line of
goods than was his ordinary wont, and, second, he had been not merely
conservative but positively reactionary. Stratton-Porter must have known
her Dickens well. The eventual survival of Peaches (in contrast to the
demise of Little Eva), to say nothing of Peaches's physical resuscitation,
is one measure of the relation, as well as the difference, between these
writers. Stratton-Porter is not all that much more bigoted than the
creator of Shylock, by the way, a point that adds yet another attraction
(as it were) to her work. In its attitude towards business and square
dealing, towards immigrants, towards institutional as opposed to personal
assistance of the needy masses, and towards a boatload of additional
social issues that Stratton-Porter looks at unblinkingly, Michael
O'Halloran might almost serve in the later 1990s as a text for modern
compassionate Republicans. (Forgive, if you can, my use of that
canting phrase.) If there were any reason at all to imagine that Indiana
Republicans can read, someone might almost have thought that the recent
Vice Presidential representative of the species, characterized, you will
recall, by an intelligence of very nearly human dimensions, had
studied this book quite seriously when he was young. Certainly, his social
attitudes--to the degree that they might be called "social" or
"attitudes" and thus made comprehensible--could easily have been molded in
the crucible of the Stratton-Porter furnace. One odd note. Indiana
continues to behave most curiously, for a university press, with this
series. The present volume, like all too many of its companions, contains
no indication of its original 1915 date of publication; nor does any
imprint date indicate that this volume is a 1997 reprint; nor do I find
any information about the edition it reprints. Earlier volumes in the
series have on occasion apparently worked not from "true" first editions
but from Grosset and Dunlap reprints instead. I suppose I ought to applaud
the imagination that has led Indiana to make these books widely available
once again, with or without such bibliographical care. This volume, less
than $15 in paperback, compares quite favorably with the $200 or so one
might have to pay for a first edition. Nonetheless, I might have thought
these Stratton-Porter reprints a venture with somewhat higher motives than
palliation of local literary chauvinists and sociopolitical troglodytes
had Indiana shown any effort to suggest something even remotely resembling
a critical approach to the issue of reprinting such materials. I don't
find a single sign. I read A Daughter of the Land in the original
1918 Doubleday, Page edition. This gorgeous book is the tale of a woman
for whom nothing works right after she tries to take charge of her own
life after living too long in a family where to be a woman is to be
nothing. You expect a feminist tract? Well, you get one. Its peculiar
brand of feminism, in combination with its other social attitudes, will,
however, surprise you in all sorts of ways. I devoured the book, which
lasted the length of a flight from Philadelphia to Ontario, California.
You will, too. I also read Stratton-Porter's 1907 At the Foot of the
Rainbow. I read the 1907 Grosset and Dunlap edition (which I take to
be a reprint of the Outing Publishing Company edition of the same year,
although I have not yet had a chance to look up the details in
BAL). For all of the author's conservatism, this is a pretty weird
little book. Two men--Jimmy Malone and Dannie Macnoun--are in love with
the same woman. One sent the other to her to speak for him; he is refused,
and his spokesman marries her in his stead. So, when we meet her, she is
Mary Malone. Dannie nonetheless hangs around . . . for the next fifteen
years. Hmmmm. Jimmy and Mary have three children during this period;
each is stillborn. Something is rotten at the core of their relationship.
That Jimmy is an alcoholic bum is another strong hint of problems here. A
crisis occurs for all three in this fifteenth year. It provides the burden
of Stratton-Porter's book. I won't spoil it for those who can't guess the
tale's outcome. Had Stratton-Porter sat down to read Eve Kosofsky
Sedgwick's Between Men before writing this novel, she could not
have come up with a clearer example of what the concept of "homosocial
discourse" might mean. What, one wonders, is this example doing
here? The author, one remembers, is not even a man. Similarly
homosocial and homoerotic themes abound in her works, incidentally. She
frequently depicts a peculiarly strong bonding between men in her novels,
and even does so in, for instance, Freckles. This is an author who,
as I read more and more of her, becomes curiouser and
curioser. James Lee Burke has written several
interesting mysteries set in Louisiana's bayou country. Their central
character is one Dave Robicheaux, a former member of the NOPD, an
alcoholic who now attends AA meetings, a widower now re-married, an
adoptive father, and, in later books, an officer of the New Iberia
sherrif's department. The older books in Burke's Robicheaux series were
characterized both by considerable violence and a cynical, not to say
nasty, political outlook that considered with gimlet eyes the impact on
American national and community life of what Mr. Eisenhower once called
"the military-industrial complex." Those earlier novels, together with a
few by other authors, long ago suggested to me that the American political
novel is not dead at all but rather thriving, albeit in sub-literary
genres like the mystery and the thriller that no one bothers to take
seriously. It thrives there, one supposes, precisely because such
political attitudes are safe to express in genres that no one takes
seriously. It had been a while since I'd last read a Burke, and so when
the chance arose recently I picked up Burke's Burning Angel (New
York: Hyperion, 1995) with anticipatory please. But despite its local
color and its cynicism, always attractive, this is not, I am unhappy to
report, one of Burke's better novels in the Robicheaux series. Its
plot--part "lifestyles of the rich and shameless"; part the wages of
industrialized rapaciousness visited upon a once-beautiful landscape; part
Faulknerian past sins repaid in the present, race at their root--is far
too intricate. Perhaps as a result, too many loose ends dangle when the
book reaches its conclusion. Most troublesome, at least for me, Burke
reaches the same point of desperation that Pete Hamill evidently reached
in Snow in August. He
therefore resorts to the same supernatural deus ex machina to get
out of it. A man recently shot several times in the back but now risen
from the dead proves able to act as a guardian angel to several people in
need of help, both in person and over the phone. No explanation is
offered. Perhaps Burke intends, in the mode of the soap opera, to bring
this character back in a later novel, with a naturalistic explanation of
how come he's still alive. In this novel, alas, it simply doesn't
work--and I finished the book feeling cheated. Cheat or not, Burning
Angel prompted me to catch up with Dave Robicheaux's other recent
doings--and the books read well when you're travelling, which, what with
one thing and another, I spent large chunks of June doing. So I tried
again with Dixie City Jam (1994; rpt. New York: Hyperion, 1995).
Here we find some notably unsavory types trying to raise a Nazi submarine
sunk during the War off the Louisiana coast. Several of the unsavories
seem to be homegrown neo-Nazis; but Burke's political point of view goes
all skewey as the novel works towards its close and once again I felt
vaguely dissatisfied by the time I reached the novel's all-too-predictably
energetic end. Cadillac Jukebox is the most recent Robicheaux
(New York: Hyperion, 1996). I read it mostly while sitting on a bed in
Chicago. The bed did not bounce with my excitement. In the book, I
discovered, with neither much surprise nor interest, terrible people do
terrible things. They are really bad (both the people and
the things). I could hardly have cared less. This author is writing a
lot too much and a lot too fast. I hope the money is worth it. Just as unhappily, I have to say the same about Thomas
Perry's newest Jane Whitefield novel, The Shadow Woman (New York:
Random House, 1997). I've had nice things to say about several of Perry's earlier books, although I've
also noticed a real falling off as he has produced faster and faster. This
is the third of the Jane Whitefield novels he has produced, stockpiled, as
I recall, with Random House for years to come. While Jane's character
continues to grow and Perry's writing is generally brisk and effective,
the plot is simply unchanging. Jane's work keeps following her home to
threaten her (and, here, to threaten her new husband, as well) on what
should be the safety of her own turf. This is too much of a muchness.
"Make it," as someone once said, "new." Last
month, I mentioned Jon Hassler's
Staggerford. This month, I want to mention his next novel,
Simon's Night (1979; rpt. New York: Ballantine, 1986), also a
wonderful book. Seventy-six year-old Simon Shea fears that he is losing
his memory. He has come painfully close to burning down his house, located
in the country near Rookery College in central Minnesota, from which he
has been retired as an English professor for about ten years. In revulsion
against this mishap, he has checked himself into a home for the aged in "a
nothing town" some distance from Rookery. Here he gets to listen to the
bullying woman who runs the home as her means of earning a living. He also
listens to a retired farmer named Hatch, who recalls every drought he has
ever lived through, and an Indian named Smalleye, who comments repeatedly
on his own desire to shoot a goose, which he had done every year about
this time (fall) until he was removed to the home for the aged. One of the
women residents persistently recalls, in language that strains towards
decorum without ever actually achieving it, her past sex life, in hopes
that she will successfully entice Simon to partake of its
present. During this dark night of Simon's soul a young doctor enters
his life when, as a new resident of the home, Simon must go to her for a
physical exam. She comes quickly to feel that Simon has made a mistake in
this renunciation of his solitary existence (his wife had left him about
forty years before). The novel is a series of incidents that combine to
suggest to Simon that she might be right. I felt that the Hassler hand
lay a wee bit heavily on the Joycean ending of the book. Into the drought
of seventy-six falls rain, not snow--and thus we find spiritual rebirth,
not "The Dead," in case you need these deep symbols explained to you. But
that's my only real criticism of a book otherwise so lovely as to
beggar description. Stephen Jay Gould has
recently published a long essay in two parts--"Darwinian Fundamentalism,"
"Evolution: The Pleasures of Pluralism"--in The New York Review of
Books, 44:10 and 11 for June 12 and June 26, 1997 (34-37; 47-52). I
read the two parts in Corona del Mar, California, and Houlton, Maine,
and--fascinated as I was by both--nonetheless found myself feeling quite
peculiar about the venue of this long response to criticism of
Gould and Eldridge's supplement to natural selection in the theory of
punctuated equilibrium. I don't expect discourse on such issues to
take place in a general and public rather than a specialized forum; yet
the more I think about it, the surer I become that I am wrong. I am no
scientist but I am interested in these issues, as well as by the
ways in which scientists think and argue. Other people must feel the same
way. So why shouldn't such discourse--such arguments--take place in
public view? Gould writes well--so well that, for a non-scientist like me,
he is astonishingly convincing just because he is so lucid. In fact,
however, I think he may be convincing not only because he writes so well
but also because he has a capacious imagination and curiosity, and his
critics do not. Or, to put it another way, he may be convincing because he
is right. In any event, the essay is exciting in both of its parts, and
well worth your attention. Gregory S. Jay recently
published a book with Cornell University Press called American
Literature and the Culture Wars (Ithaca, NY, 1997, simultaneously
issued in hard- and paper covers). Jay is concerned in large measure with
the ways in which American literature and American studies need to expand
their range to do justice to the theoretical and cultural revolutions of
the last quarter of a century. Far more sympathetic to the changes that
these revolutions reflect and promote than writers like, say, Todd Gitlin, Jay can be read--as I
did--with almost unmitigated pleasure from beginning to end. His book will
(or should!) have special resonance for people who teach
literature now and again, as well as for those who simply read the stuff.
He has tried to make his book comprehensible to an audience that is
non-professional about issues that matter to Lit. Crit. types; on the
whole, he has succeeded admirably. This is another book worth reading to
get juices flowing. A friend who knows very
well that I never read books like the one about to be recommended
here nonetheless badgered me so effectively that I finally succumbed and
read John Krakauer's Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mount
Everest Disaster (New York: Villard, 1997). He was right. The book
tells me much more than I ever wanted to know about life above
24,000 feet. So what? I have already forgotten that stuff about it and
remember instead only the endurance and the folly that Krakauer
commemorates so well in this book about getting up Mount Everest--and,
worse, coming back down--and, worse still, failing to make it back
down. Now a Big League bestseller, the book tells a horrific story very
well indeed. I was glad to have read it. It is also a book that fairly
begs to be "deconstructed." What are the author's feelings
about the events and the people he describes? his motives in telling the
tale he tells? Can we tell? Can he? Krakauer's own text quotes the
relatives of some of those who died on Everest in May of 1996. At their
mildest, their letters accuse him of self-interest in the tale he tells.
Such inclusions do not, it turns out, so positively shade the integrity of
the author who includes them as to prevent a reader from wondering whether
there might be more to such accusations than first meets the
eye. Readers may agree or ignore this point; but the book itself will, I
suspect, provoke little disagreement. It is simply terrific. I have yet to read a recent book by Redmond O'Hanlon that
deals (as, in a sense, Krakauer's does, too) with travel (No Mercy,
New York: Knopf, 1997). Its reviews were good enough to send me to look
first at an earlier--and cheaper!--book of O'Hanlon's, Into the Heart
of Borneo (1984; rpt. New York: Vintage, 1987, $12.00 in paper). No
praise could possibly be adequate to the variegated strengths of a book
that starts right out by telling you that "The training area of 22 SAS
near Hereford is the best place on earth from which to begin a journey
upriver into the heart of the jungle" (p. 2) and which shortly thereafter
presents the narrator, on his first evening in Borneo, bedded down for the
night in a hotel room in the town of Kuching, being visited, somewhat
surprisingly, by his old Oxford tutor, John Jones ("He put his knuckles on
the mattress and leaned forward. 'Yes, Redmond,' he said, in his intense
way, giving each word its full share of time in his mouth, 'but what have
you ever done in life?'"--p. 13). Things only get better. Or worse.
It's hard to tell the difference, and (if you're at all like me) you won't
want to bother. This book is shriekingly, laugh-out-loud funny. Find a
copy and read it. Soon.
I
spent much of July traveling, teaching two weeks in Virginia and then
doing a bit of touring in the region around the capitol of the Old
Confederacy, Richmond, with a side trip to Norfolk. One result of these
travels is the brevity of this August "tout." If that's a
problem. With great enthusiasm, I picked
up the Dalkey Archive reissue of W. M. Spackman's Complete Fiction
just as soon as I saw it (Normal, IL, 1997, $16.95 in paperback). I first
encountered Spackman in 1978 when Knopf published An Armful of Warm
Girl, a book whose voice--the voice of a Philadelphia Main Line
man in full bray (as, I think, one early reviewer said of it)--is among
the most remarkable American writing coups of the postwar era, right up
there with Philip Roth (another writer whose control of voice is also
extraordinary, although Roth controls a very different register of voices
indeed!) I own that book, as well as the three later ones that Spackman
published with Knopf (A Presence with Secrets, 1980; A
Difference of Design, 1983; and A Little Decorum, for Once,
1985); they're not why I needed this volume. But Spackman also wrote an
early book, Heyday, published by Ballantine in 1953, which has
never been reprinted; and, after Spackman died in 1990, a novel that Knopf
had already announced in one or more of its lists of books forthcoming was
allowed to go unpublished. Both are here, or so I take it (along with two
short pieces, "Dialogue at the End of a Pursuit" and "Declarations of
Intent"; neither Twenty-five Years of It, a book of poems published
in Perros-Guirec, France, in a limited edition in 1967, nor On the
Decay of Humanism [Rutgers 1967], a book of essays, is included here,
since neither is a work of fiction, but they deserve reprinting, as
well). I no longer have the Knopf lists in which the announcements of
what was to be Spackman's last novel appeared, but As I Sauntered Out,
One Midcentury Morning . . . seems to be that book. The volume begins
with Heyday. Or so I thought. It has been some twenty years or so
since I first read Heyday but, when I started in on it here, it
seemed to me that something was not quite right. I looked then at the
"Afterword" by Steven Moore, the volume's editor, and learned that my
memory had not gone to seed: this is a different Heyday,
much revised from the 1953 novel I had remembered. I decided that I ought
to be able to find--and then, after a web search, did find--a copy of the
1953 version (the book was published originally by Ballantine in what was
then an "experimental" simultaneous hardcover and mass-market paperback
editions). Pandora's Books (Neche, ND) had a copy of the paperback. I have
yet to find a hardcover copy, or either the poems or the essays, but I'm
looking. Spackman is a wonderfully odd writer not easy to describe. His
subject is the upper classes, his prose style mannered, his concision
something I admire (from afar!). Moore's concluding essay about him is
worth reading. But the books themselves are simply terrific. Having them
here together (even if it's only a revised Heyday) is a real
pleasure. Obviously, I have problems with Moore's decision to print the
revision, especially since it too was left in a state of some disruption
by the author's last illness and death while still under way. I can
remember hearing Borges complaining to a university audience many years
ago about literary scholars who don't mind if, when he takes the last page
from the typewriter and re-reads his story, Borges has second thoughts,
goes back to his typescript, and makes changes, but who wax indignant if
Borges does the same thing not when the story is fresh from the typewriter
but twenty years later. "It's still my story," Borges said; and of course
he's right. Partly. By that time, however, it has become his readers's
story, too. When you like it one way, you might not like it another. I
haven't yet recovered from my shock enough to read the "new"
Heyday; no doubt, I will, sooner or later. Meanwhile, if you've
not bumped into W. M. Spackman (1905-1990--what is my thing about
writers born in that year?), here
is a volume that makes it possible for you to do so quite handily. He is
an encounter worth having. Over what has become
a surprisingly long span of years, a learned colleague and I have argued
about privately-printed books: he likes them, I don't. Neither of us
collects them (we're both librarians and we can't afford them--one point
about them on which we both agree); both of us own some anyway (they come
your way if you're in the way); but he thinks they're a free space that
encourages typographical and design innovation, and I think they're toys
for the rich that have remarkably little to do with the book world that
exists for people who read books. Their leisure-class audience
dispirits me; the fact that they draw attention to themselves as
objects, not as books, seems to me a perversion of what
books are for. So much for past opinions. I'm throwing in the towel,
conceding not defeat--I'd never have convinced my colleague anyway--but,
worse, error and lack of imagination. A book that has been out for several
years, sitting not only on bookstore shelves but also on my own shelves
since I bought it in 1993, the year Princeton published it, is something I
finally got around to reading this summer; it's a mind-changer. Written by
that bête noir of bibliographers, Jerome McGann, the book is
called Black Riders: The Visible Language of Modernism. In it,
McGann argues that the typographic and design processes by which a book
draws attention to itself as an object are in fact precisely what
make privately-printed books so attractive to certain kinds of modernist
writers. Showing me how these books make their physical appearances
function for literary ends, he salvages (for me, anyway) an entire
form of publication. Lucid both about a tough issue and about a lot
of writers who are not always ones I'd read (among them, e.g., William
Morris, Ezra Pound, Laura Riding Jackson, and Jack Spicer), this is an
educational book in the best sense of that word. Read it and
see. I've done a bit of catching up with
periodicals this summer. While traveling in Virginia, in Shenandoah
National Park, I bumped into an issue of US News & World Report
with a cover story by Michael Satchell on "Parks in peril" (July 21, 1997,
pp. 22-28). For the past several years, the National Park Service has been
the only government agency I can name that has done anything for me
that I really wanted done. This year alone, I have visited Death
Valley, Joshua Tree, the Everglades, and Shenandoah (and I have, moreover,
encountered Rangers in each place who were helpful, friendly, courteous,
and cheerful), so I suppose I should not be surprised that in the Era of
the Newt the NPS should be underfunded (expose that toad to bright
sunlight and it would be in deep trouble very quickly). In any event, for
those who care about such things, this was an article worth
reading. I also read a very different essay,
in a very different venue, by Wayne Wiegand. "'Jew Attack': The Story
Behind Melvil Dewey's Resignation as New York State Librarian in 1905"
appeared in the September 1995 issue of American Jewish History
(83:3, 359-379). It is simply delicious. True, it told me nothing about
Dewey I would not already have expected. Anyone who has read, for example,
Dee Garrison's gruesomely hilarious Apostles of Culture: The Public
Librarian and American Society, 1876-1920 (New York: Macmillan
Information, 1979), a study of the "feminization" of American
librarianship under Dewey's aegis (women work for less, he astutely
realized), will have been well prepared for everything Wiegand says about
Dewey's other admirable traits. Still and all, the essay is a real
treat. I finished it rather wishing that I could dig up some of Wiegand's
characters to congratulate them on a good job well done. Perhaps because of my interest in the Manhattan Project, a
subject about which I teach a literature course every so often, I was
quite excited to find Margot Norris's essay, "Dividing the Indivisible:
The Fissured Story of the Manhattan Project," in a recent issue of
Cultural Critique (no. 35 [Winter 1996-97], pp. 5-38). It was an
essay that excited me as much by the time I'd reached its end as it had in
prospect, except that I was irritated to see that Norris had said in print
one of the things I had wanted to say too, but before I got to say it. She
is concerned with the ways in which the history of the Manhattan Project
has become a story, and a story constructed in a very deliberate way to
have a very specific meaning. That "story" is not "history"--in
fact, it works by turning part of the story to use as if it were
the whole of the story--but this behavior, taking the part for the whole,
has important consequences of its own. Norris's is an unusually valuable
essay, one that I will have my own students read when I teach this course
again (as I will do this fall). If the topic is
of any interest to you, too, you'll find that Norris has written a very
smart essay well worth the reading. The
Summer 1997 issue of The American Scholar contained several essays
I read with one or another degree of interest. John Keegan, best known
for The Face of Battle and a number of later books about the
experiences of men at war, has an essay here about cemetaries for the
British Commonwealth's war dead, "There's Rosemary for Remembrance" (pp.
335-348). This is an essay it would be difficult to overpraise. I started
it because of its title--memory is a topic I have written about
elsewhere--as well as because I have liked most other of Keegan's books as
I've read them. The essay is surprisingly lovely, surprisingly moving. A
number of recent books examine the forays into public memory that war
memorials represent in a number of cultures, including the United States.
Keegan's essay seems simpler than these, perhaps because the author's
point of view is a lot less ambiguous than the points of view of others
I've read in this area, but it is nonetheless enormously evocative. I
enjoyed it; I think others would, as well. The same issue contains a
lovely essay honoring the memory of her teacher by sociologist
Renée C. Fox. "Talcott Parsons, My Teacher" (pp. 395-410) is a
tribute to a person noted as a theoretician of sociology but portrayed
here almost solely in his role as a teacher: I found it quite informative.
I remember the pleasure my father took from praise he received from
students many years after they had been in his classes. Parsons would have
been tickled pink by this one. Joseph Horowitz has a very brief essay
about "Schubert at 200" (pp. 419-422) and, while I enjoyed it, I find
myself quite unclear about its intended audience. Is it directed at people
who don't already listen to Schubert's music? Or at people like me who do,
but who know little about the person who was Schubert and (under the
influence of a visceral New Criticism, imbibed so early that, even though
abandoned with respect to literature, it has been retained in other areas
of cultural experience) don't even think they should learn something about
him? Okay, okay. I looked today at two new biographies about Franz and
will, I hope, choose one of them soon . . . Dana Gioia has an essay
about "The Berg" (pp. 431-436), that is, the Berg Collection of English
and American Literature at The New York Public Library. I am, again,
unclear about the audience for such an essay but, as a long-time fan of
NYPL generally and the Berg specifically, I enjoyed Gioia's introduction
to a major resource for students and scholars. The essay reminded me not
only of the Berg's astonishing holdings but also of the marvelous way in
which it was formed. Moreover, in its attention to the ways in which Jews
took up leadership roles in cultural philanthropies in midcentury America,
the piece formed an especially amusing pendant to Wiegand's essay on
Dewey, which I had recently read. Librarianship and issues that relate to
it turn up--here and in Wiegand's article--in the damnedest places! John Lukacs, a professor at nearby (to
me) Chestnut Hill College who also teaches a course on World War II now
and again at Penn, has an essay in this issue on "Fear and Hatred" (pp.
437-441). It tries to do much too much in too little space, drawing
distinctions (much too assertively) between the characteristics of
totalitarians of the left (fear) and of the right (hatred), and then going
on to explore some of the manifestations in current political life of
these two primal emotions. His editor has permitted Lukacs to go into
print here with some quite outlandish gender-based distinctions that are
an embarrassment without relief. Despite this brief but utter lapse--and
Lukacs's failure to marshall any evidence at all for his larger case--the
essay is nonetheless something I found worth reading. It has the courage
to try, however foolishly in so abbreviated a context, to raise basic
questions. On general principles, I think this is always a good idea, even
if I don't agree with the results. My July tours
to the Old Confederacy and its capitol, Richmond, took me, among other
places, to Jefferson Davis's "White House," to his grave in Hollywood
Cemetary, Richmond, to the Museum of the Confederacy, and to a plantation
on the James River (Sherwood Forest, where lived one John Tyler, once a
President of the United States--he was the "Too" in "Tippecanoe and Tyler
Too"--who later chose treason and died while in a state of rebellion; his
remains sit atop a hill in Hollywood Cemetary overlooking the fall line of
the James, rather closer to those of James Monroe than this
"Yankee" thought appropriate, but well away from, and far above, those of
Davis). Is it as a result of these various visits--or perhaps instead a
belated response to my reading of Patriotic Gore--that I thought I
might finally begin Shelby Foote's very heavy history of the Civil War?
Who knows? In any event, I've now done so. The Civil War: A
Narrative: Fort Sumter to Perryville (volume 1, originally published
in 1958 and in print in both hard and paper covers) is a huge tub of a
book--but, at 810 text pages, it is the shortest of the three
volumes. Foote (that nice ol' fella from the Ken Burns teevee series)
turns out to be more than a bit of a southern chauvinist. Yet the man
can write, a reader can correct for his biases, and I therefore
find myself not only pushing onward but also recommending to anyone who
doesn't already have a life that Foote's Civil War will certainly
keep you well occupied even without one for a good long time. I'd never
read any of Foote's novels. With some curiosity, then, I picked up
Shiloh: A Novel (1952; now available in a Vintage paperback dated
1991), after I'd passed the point in the history where that battle is
described. The only other book about a Civil War battle I have ever read,
also a novel, is Robert Penn Warren's extremely peculiar
Wilderness. Foote's book may or may not be "better" but it is not
at all "peculiar" in the same way that Warren's is. Foote served in Europe
in artillery; he knows something of the confusion of combat, a feeling
that comes through well in the novel--or perhaps I am only describing an
illusion of "authenticity" that the novel conveys very effectively.
Nonetheless, "authentic" or not, I felt curiously uninterested, by and
large, in the lives (and occasional deaths) that Foote's book retails.
Much more interesting, to me, was the way in which, having read the Shiloh
section of his history, I could see how much of the novel served not only
as preparation for the history but was also absorbed piecemeal into it.
Unlike the history, incidentally, which goes on forever, Shiloh: A
Novel is taut and tight. It's an easy read and a worthwhile
one. My Indiana correspondent asked me some time
ago if I were planning to look at all at George Ade. Since, if I'd ever
heard of Ade before that question, I certainly did not know that he
was an Indianan, my answer was "No"; but I happened to bumble into a few
books by Ade in one or another of the Virginia bookstores I wandered in
and out of on my travels, and one of them, Fables in Slang (1899;
rpt. Chicago: Herbert S. Stone, 1901), I've now read. These sketches are
literal fables, moral taglines at their end and all. Satiric views
of small-town types or small personalities, they seem to point to larger
forms that writers like Sherwood Anderson (Ohio) and Sinclair Lewis
(Minnesota) would later develop and eventually make seem like the norm for
midwestern writers. But Ade's sketches have a flavor all their own. They
are, quite distinctly, not trying hard to be Anderson or Lewis
avant la lettre and failing in that effort. They are Ade--and I
rather liked him. Fables in Slang is a book of tiny sketches. I
read a sketch or two at a time over about two weeks, since I suspected
that, read as if they constituted a novel (or even a book of short
stories), they would have become quite cloying. Read in pieces, however,
they worked. I have some additional Ades to work through and I look
forward to them. Indiana seems to be a place I'm not quite done with
yet. Who'd have believed it?
Somewhat to my surprise, I recently found myself
reading Bernhard Schlink's Der Vorleser, a novel originally
published in Zurich in 1995. I read it in Carol Brown Janeway's English
translation, The Reader (New York: Pantheon, 1997, $21.00). Despite
the promptings of relatives and friends more open to exciting new
experiences than I am, I don't read a lot of postwar German fiction;
"close to none" would be a fairly accurate assessment. Schlink's is not
one of those books likely to do an overwhelmingly successful job of
weaning me from my prejudices . . . despite being very good indeed. In
Schlink's novel, a fifteen-year-old boy--the story is narrated by his
much older voice--stumbles into an intense sexual relationship with
a thirty-four-year-old woman who lives not too far from his Berlin
apartment. It is the mid-1950s. Some time later, she disappears, leaving
him vaguely uncertain about how he has betrayed her. Eight years later,
the boy, now a law student, attends, for a law school class, a trial of
minor Holocaust offenders in a nearby town. Among the several women in the
dock is his very own former love; but the two do not speak. Years before
he had known her, it turns out, she had been a guard at one of the smaller
camps associated with Auschwitz. She was also part of a group that,
marching several hundred women west when the eastern front began to
collapse, put them inside a church for the night, barring its doors
against their unwonted egress--and left those doors locked even after
allied bombing during the night set the church afire. All but two of the
women, a mother and her daughter, died. The trial has been prompted by a
book about their experiences written by one of the survivors. Her fellow
former guards depict the narrator's former lover as both leader of their
group and the one among them most responsible for the death of the
prisoners. The portrait they draw depends on something the narrator
realizes is not true. He cannot bring himself to speak up about it,
however, and, at trial's end, all but she receive short sentences. She is
sentenced to life, and off she goes. Eighteen years later she receives
clemency. Her warden contacts the narrator, who has been the prisoner's
only correspondent, when her release begins to seem imminent. A few days
before the release, the narrator (now a legal historian, divorced, and the
father of a young woman in boarding school) visits his former lover (now a
woman of about sixty) to prepare her for the apartment and job he has
arranged for her. They have not spoken since he was a teenager, although
she had known he was in attendance at her trial and, since then, in fact,
throughout her imprisonment, he has sent her tapes of books he has read
aloud for her. He had read aloud to her while they were lovers. As he
learned at the trial, inmates had also read to her when she was a guard,
before they were returned to Auschwitz for extermination. Guilt--for
both action and inaction--responsibility, compassion, and memory are all
at issue here. Schlink does not gloss over the past. But he wants his
reader to come to sympathize with Hanna Schmitz, a complicated woman who
has struggled to survive, to get on with her life, and even to atone in
some way for what, as a younger person, she had done. This is more,
perhaps, than one can say for Wolfgang Petersen, who simply wants us to
cheer in the movie theater when his heroic and, of course, apolitical
U-boat crew ("Nazis? Us?") successfully sink a British naval vessel
(Das Böot). I didn't cheer in the movie theater. I wasn't
dismayed by Hanna's sentence. I was dismayed that her sentence
wasn't shared by the other women with whom she had "served." The only
voice in this novel I could recognize as speaking for me was that of the
daughter--one of the two survivors--whom the narrator visits in New York.
"That woman was truly brutal . . . did you ever get over the fact that you
were only fifteen when she. . . . Did you ever feel, when you had contact
with her . . . , that she knew what she had done to you?" (p. 213). That
voice is in the novel, however: thank you, Herr Schlink. And,
while I do not like them, the questions Schlink asks are real enough. What
does one do with, how does one think about, the mere cogs--the
dopes--who get caught up in the machinery of evil? Particularly if
they are, say, one's parents, whom one loves? or one's lover, of (more or
less) one's parents's generation, whom one also loves? Particularly if
what they have "done to you" has, in fact, been very nearly fatal? An
acquaintance who is also an alumnus of the Wehrmacht's eastern front
campaigns, now a (retired) American academic (he fled here to escape what
he regarded as the disastrous effects of the '68 on German universities),
has referred to the generation immediately after his own as a "ruined"
generation. His perspective is obviously quite considerably more
conservative than mine; but Schlink makes fairly vivid what he
meant. The Reader is a disturbing book, and a good one--although,
disconcertingly enough, it reminded me much more of John Grisham's
The Chamber (his death-penalty novel) than its author, if he has
ever heard of Grisham, might be happy to hear. But the operative word here
is "reminded": Schlink's is, finally, a much better book than Grisham's.
On balance, I am glad I read it, and glad, too, to recommend it, to
anyone, that is, not especially eager, at the moment, for a fun
read. I found Alain Finkielkraut's book
about the Klaus Barbie trial a lot easier to like than I found Schlink's
novel. Remembering in Vain: The Klaus Barbie Trial and Crimes Against
Humanity is the English translation (by Roxanne Lapidus, with Sima
Godfrey, published by Columbia University Press, 1992) of a French
original that appeared as a book in 1989. Finkielkraut is angry about
the ways in which the Barbie trial confused and conflated different
issues: first, treatment of members of the Resistance, people, that is,
who chose to act and to fight and for whom punishment and death were thus
avoidable consequences (had they, that is, chosen not to act and to
fight, punishment and death could have been avoided), vs. treatment,
second, of Jews, who had chosen nothing but were guilty by virtue of birth
and could therefore avoid no consequences through either action or choice.
How these issues affect the notion of "crimes against humanity" is
Finkielkraut's burden. That notion, of "crimes against humanity," has
been in the air this year once again (although not in such a way that most
Americans have had to notice it). War crimes trials are planned or under
way for actions that took place in the former Yugoslavia and also in
several African nations. How the confusion and conflation of different
kinds of crimes is the result not only of deliberate obfuscation
but also of a loss of historical memory is the other burden of
Finkielkraut's book, which looks, inter alia, at Faurisson and
other Holocaust deniers. It is an angry book, and a brilliant
one. The Imaginary Jew is another of Finkielkraut's books
now available in English. Translated by Kevin O'Neill and David Suchoff,
the book--originally published in France in 1980--appeared from the
University of Nebraska Press in 1994. It has been reissued by Nebraska as
a paperback this year. This was the first of Finkielkraut's books I read,
and I loved it. One could describe the book in terms that make it
sound almost comic. It begins autobiographically and never loses its close
touch with the personal. Here am I [one might paraphrase Finkielkraut], a
froggy version of Mrs. Portnoy's little boy, born in Paris in 1949 and
raised as a bright kid to attend the right schools. Sometime around the
'68, your average École Normale Superieure student, I find myself
on the streets, protesting with all my friends. One of our protests
concerns the denial of a visa that would have permitted the return to
France of student (but German) Daniel Cohn-Bendit. "We are all German
Jews!" my friends and I say as we protest. And then I think, Huh? Wait a
minute. I'm a German Jew. You're frogs. And then I think
some more. It's the "more" that isn't simply comic. What does it mean to
"be"--or to claim to be--Jewish, when you don't know a thing about
Judaism? What do you know about being Jewish if, for you, there is not
only no danger in being Jewish but even an implicit right to lay claim to
a mantle of "moral authority" as result of being Jewish? If your father,
an Auschwitz alumnus, and mother, who spent the war in hiding and
occasionally in prison, have protected you by never telling you about
their experiences? If they have never tried to evoke for you the now dead
world of eastern European Jewry, and if you cannot go around their silence
to experience that world for yourself, since Hitler did succeed
quite handily in exterminating Mitteleuropa's Jewry? And exterminated,
with it, the once incredibly varied options for "being" Jewish, now
reduced to a stark two--(1) being religious, (2) supporting
Israel--neither of which is particularly attractive, at least for some
people. This book, like Finkielkraut's book about the Barbie trial, is a
long meditation on the relationship between memory and identity, memory
and culture. These are topics about which I find myself deeply concerned
and about which I have written. I found it simply gorgeous. For relief, I read three New York books--"mysteries"?
"thrillers"?--by Carol O'Connell. I'd not heard of her till I heard her in
an NPR interview that appalled me. The interviewer never allowed the
soft-spoken author to finish a single answer to any of the really
stupid questions she asked. I felt so sorry for O'Connell, after listening
to this travesty in the car on the way home from work one fine August
afternoon, that I picked up the first three books in her Mallory
series--Mallory's Oracle (1994; rpt. New York: Jove, 1995); The
Man Who Cast Two Shadows (which I read in its London: Hutchinson, 1995
edition under the title The Man Who Lied to Women); and Killing
Critics (1996; rpt. New York: Jove, 1997)--and whizzed through
them. Well, they're okay, but not much more than that. O'Connell is
not a writer who understands (or even likes) New York, nor
does she provide her reader with the illusion of understanding cop
culture. In addition, she evades by only the merest of hair's-breadths the
sense that (like Andrew Vachss) she has peopled her fictional universe
with a bucketful of grotesques, refugees from a (rejected!) Flannery
O'Connor novel. Kathy Mallory, her heroine, is an NYPD detective
sergeant. Her adoptive father, Louis Markowitz, was a detective lieutenant
in the same unit she now works in. Their careers overlapped, but he was
shot to death just before the first of the novels opens. How she solves
that killing is the tale that book tells. Mallory is a sociopath and
computer whiz. This may be the only genuinely funny connection that
O'Connell, otherwise singularly unhumorous, makes in the three books I've
read. I suppose that, because the books "progress"--"building character"
is what I think we're to imagine them doing--one probably needs to start
with Mallory's Oracle, where Kathy Mallory's past begins to become
apparent. The evocation of more and more of her past is a sub-theme of all
three novels. But if you're going to read just one, which may be more than
anyone needs to read, Killing Critics--they're art critics,
not literary critics: too bad--is the one I'd recommend. O'Connell's
strengths are on view here, particularly a reasonably intricate plot that
emerges from a nifty murder at a gallery exhibition opening, itself
evocative of a quite gruesome double murder many years ago on which Louis
Markowitz had worked, and a fairly convincing set of art-world insider
characters. The latter are marred only by the co-existence of too many
grotesques alongside the convincing ones. That the old murders and the new
seem likely to be linked, and how this link is sought, as well as whether
or not it is ever found, all make the book a good puzzle. But equally on
view are O'Connell's weaknesses. First, the grotesques: for a book of this
sort, I would have found credibility in the characters more intrinsic to
the entertainment value of the tale than the author seems to find it.
Second, Mallory's computer whizziness is a sort of modern deus ex
machina, a technique, that is, that allows O'Connell to bypass the
procedures that make police procedurals work. Third, the book's ending was
the weakness that finally stopped me from going on to her newest book,
Stone Angel, the publication of which prompted the ghastly NPR
interviewer to mug O'Connell on the air. Feeling herself (or so I imagine)
constricted by her New York and NYPD setting, O'Connell wigs out and
tosses it all away at the end of Killing Critics, including every
other character she has built up, along with Mallory, in the previous
three novels. This seemed like a genuinely stupid move to me. The way in
which it was done also seemed completely unbelievable. The books did
keep me going, however, so perhaps they have a little more than mere
relief to offer. But they do have at least that. Last month, I
mentioned reading Shelby Foote. My
reading in the Civil War continued this month, largely because, over Labor
Day weekend, I was scheduled to participate--and did, despite a doozy of a
cold--in the 1997 Penn
Reading Project for freshmen, for which I needed not only to read but
also, perhaps, to know at least a little bit about the context of, Gary
Wills's Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Lincoln at Gettysburg: The Words
That Remade America (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992; an undated
Touchstone paperback is available). Wills dedicates his book to Great
Expectations, a bookshop in Evanston, Illinois, that I happen to know. He
is right to do so. I eventually wound up liking his book, despite initial
reservations, but it does seem highly derivative. Essentially,
Wills argues that, at Gettysburg, Lincoln's short speech recenters the
Declaration of Independence at the heart of American political life, as
the "ideal" of which the Constitution is only an imperfect
"realization." More important, the "all men" of whose equality the
Declaration speaks movingly--and incorrectly--in its opening is, says
Wills, expanded by Lincoln to include, as originally it did not,
all men, black as well as white. Generally, it seems to me,
Wills's book is trying to move American political discourse away from the
un-ideological slant of the "end of ideology" era by reminding us
that real issues were at stake in the ways people thought--and
think!--about such "abstractions" as the Declaration, the Constitution,
the Bill of Rights, and the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth
Amendments. I think he is right; I wish he had been more open about such
motives. I was, on the whole, pleased by the book, even if I felt that
Wills turns "Lincoln" into a character too akin to Washington marble for
me quite to believe. I was surprised and astonished by how indifferent to
it my students seemed to be, by how utterly negligible what they know of
American history is. It ain't, as they say, my field. But if I were an
American historian, I would be hoppin'. Wills reprints Edward Everett's
speech at Gettysburg--the speech to which Lincoln's "Address" is always
contrasted. Its inclusion was, for me, one of the unexpected high points
of the book. I read Everett with excitement and devotion. It was like
reading a master. Every mistake he makes I make.
Jeepers. Another Pulitzer Prize-winning book I read--as part of
my own self-assigned "background reading" for the same project--was
Michael Shaara's 1974 novel, The Killer Angels. How I managed to
miss this book both when it appeared and ever since--here's a true
confession: it is a book I had, literally, no memory of having ever
heard of till I began reading for this topic--I cannot
imagine. Shaara's novel details the three-day battle of Gettysburg. It
resembles, in this sense, Shelby Foote's battle novel Shiloh. I
mentioned in discussing Shiloh that I was not all that engaged by
Foote's imaginary characters. I was, to the contrary, enthralled by
Shaara's historical ones. Longstreet and Chamberlain are only the two I
liked most. The rest of the characters, and the novel itself, are simply
wonders. Most people won't have missed it the way I did. But if you
happen to be one who did, this is the moment to rectify your mistake. Mass
market and trade paperback editions exist, and the book also remains
available in hard covers. I also read a few books written by
Civil War historian James M. McPherson. Abraham Lincoln and the Second
American Revolution (a 1991 book available in an Oxford paperback from
1992) is the book to which Wills seems especially indebted; its points,
delivered less repeatedly than Wills delivers his (although the book, a
collection of mostly previously-published essays, is repetitive enough),
are often points on which Wills silently expands. (As I recall, he notices
the book only once, to disagree with it, and, as it happens, he does so at
a moment where I think McPherson likely to be correct and Wills to have
misunderstood what he was saying anyway.) I went on to read What They
Fought For, 1861-1865, originally presented as The Walter Lynwood
Fleming Lectures in Southern History at LSU and published by that
University's Press in 1994 (Doubleday Anchor made a paperback available in
1995). Here McPherson, far more explicitly than in the earlier book, looks
at the ideological motives that animated soldiers, bluebellies and
graybacks alike. I thought this was a wonderful book: short, pithy, and
written by a historian with an eye for the apt quotation, it was
surprisingly moving while also making an important point. The longer
work of which the 1994 What They Fought For was (so to speak) an
excerpt appeared earlier this year: For Cause and Comrades: Why Men
Fought in the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997).
Perhaps I read this longer and fuller version too hard upon the heels of
the earlier book but, alongside that book, it feels flaccid. Much of the
material is the same, but the additional material feels like "padding" to
me. But maybe that's because I found the ideological
arguments--concentrated in the lectures, more spread out here--to be the
heart of what interested me about the book, and the rest of it didn't grab
my attention. McPherson is a good writer, easy to read, and he certainly
has a topic worth a grown-up's attention. Meanwhile, back in
Indiana . . . Until I read Charles Major's 1901
children's book, The Bears of Blue River, last month, this was
another book I had not known. A Kenyon College sophomore, raised in
Philadelphia and Vermont, told me that this was one of his favorite books
when he was growing up. I can see why, even if I hadn't know it until I
ran into it in The Library of Indiana Classics (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1984). Set on the Indiana frontier in the 1820s, the
book concerns a small boy who lives with his family--parents, a younger
brother, and a baby--in a tiny community. We watch him learn to hunt and
track, see his excitement when he gets his first gun and begins to kill
animals, and--once, as I recall--shoot at, and perhaps kill, an Indian.
None of this is particularly fashionable stuff nowadays; nor is the
demarcation it supports between what boys do and what girls do. In
addition, the book is episodic and does not conclude so much as simply
stop. So I guess this is another book I shouldn't have enjoyed as much as
I did. Booth Tarkington's Cherry
(New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903) is a very pretty little book to read
and handle. Otherwise, alas, it is very nearly a ridiculous tale (do I
believe I read a book whose heroine is called "the fair one"?),
characterized, as too much else of Tarkington is, by a racism simply
assumed, not questioned, and by a really troublesome attitude towards
women and their intelligence. The book is saved (for me, anyway) from
being an utter waste of time by its play with anti-Puritan and
anti-Victorian attitudes, and by the curious ways in which it depicts
"manliness" vs. "studiousness." Still and all, this is not the sort of
book that one not already committed to Tarkington or to Indiana would want
to embark on casually. I
only got to some of the articles in the Spring 1997 issue of the
American Scholar after having read (and, last month, written about) some of those in the
later, Summer issue. But two essays in the Spring issue deserve a word or
two here. John Watkins memorializes Karl Popper quite usefully (66:2,
205-219). Popper is not someone whose human qualities come through
readily; I found Watkins good at reminding me that Popper was once
human. In an essay of an altogether different kind, Jeremy Bernstein
writes about "The Meeting of John Donne and Johannes Kepler" (66:2,
175-195). "Heaven's Net," as the essay's main title reads, is not an
imaginative discussion of a meeting that might have occurred. It
deals with a meeting that did occur. I found it
fascinating. Susan Rubin Suleiman's
Budapest Diary: In Search of the Motherbook, happened to be on a
shelf near Finkielkraut's book on Barbie mentioned above, and so, for no better
reason than that, I read it, too. It is published in the same series as
The Imaginary Jew, Nebraska's Texts and Contexts series (volume 18,
it appeared in 1997). It's a pretty simple book. Suleiman, who teaches
French at Harvard, was born in Budapest in 1939, and, with her parents,
survived both the Holocaust and the war. When she was 10, her parents
looked at the Russians moving into town to stay, decided once was enough
for that sort of stuff, and vamoosed. Thus she wound up in Chicago, later
becoming a student at Barnard, and, eventually, an American academic, once
married, with two children. Her father died not long after their arrival,
forty-nine years old; her mother lived long enough, however, to know that
in 1984 Suleiman returned to Budapest, her two sons (then 14 and 7) in
tow. The book begins with a recollection of growing up in Budapest, and
then a section on her 1984 visit; its heart, however, is the diary she
kept while in Budapest again, this time as a visiting fellow at an
international academic institute, in 1993. A brief coda records a 1994
visit, by which time Budapest has become a home which Suleiman no longer
needs to flee and can truly remember. Nothing much happens here. The
stuff of academic life--seminars, conferences, flights to and from this
meeting and that, papers, movies, theater--occupies the bulk of the book;
and, when it is not that, the book is either suffused with recollections
of times past or gives us a bunch of eastern European intellectuals (the
"Martians," as the Hungarians at Los Alamos called themselves) discussing
the travails of being Jewish in eastern Europe. And everything happens
here: the book is about memory, about leaving behind people and places and
coming back to them, about trying to remember--or, if necessary, to
learn--who one was the better to understand who one became. Memory, the
theme with which Finkielkraut is so concerned, is also Suleiman's theme.
Her book is not quite so "urgent" (is that the right word?) as his--I read
it right through, as I read Finkielkraut right through, but didn't feel
quite so compelled to do so as I had felt reading him. It is every
bit as provocative, as allusive, and as thought-provoking. It is also
simply beautiful.
There are colds . . . and then there are colds.
Bad colds make noses and lungs congested and throats raw, hurt ribs
hurt through violent coughing, and encourage eyes to become teary and
bleary. Eyes made sufficiently bleary leave one unable even to read.
Good colds may do almost all of the above--but, if they
leave eyes alone, that exception alone, at least by my definition, makes
them "good" colds. I had a good cold over the Labor Day weekend (and for
a week past that). As I result, bundled up and sitting in a big chair at
home instead of at work, I got through several books, many of them pretty
good, for which I might otherwise not have had time. So many of
these books were, in fact, more than "pretty good" that I am not sure
where to begin. Remembering, however, the beginning
of my somewhat ambivalent tout last month for Bernhard Schlink's The Reader, with its reference
to the relatively few contemporary German novels I read, I simply have to
begin this month with a partially corrective reference to another such
example of a kind of book--that kind of book--I do not normally
read. This 1992 book--is it a novel? a memoir? or an altogether different
genre the name of which I do not know?--is called, in German, Die
Ausgewanderten. Written by W[infried] G[eorg] Sebald, it was published
last year in English translation by poet Michael Hulse as The
Emigrants (New York: New Directions). It has reappeared this fall as a
paperback ($10.95, still published by New Directions). I bumped into it a
bookstore I frequent and, for no special reason, looked at it. By the next
day, it was home and completely read. I have since seen some reviews of
it--André Aciman's in Commentary, Cynthia Ozick's in The
New Republic--and am not surprised by the enthusiasm it elicited from
them and a few other readers, including a colleague at Penn whose interest
in German literature is far greater than my own. It is a book about which
I feel no ambivalence at all. The Emigrants consists of four
memoirs. In the first, the narrator encounters a physician living in
Norwich when he and his companion take a flat in the large house that the
physician and his wife own. The physician, born in Lithuania, wound up in
England because his parents didn't quite grasp that the sea voyage they
began in the Baltic had not exactly reached its intended terminus when
their boat went up a river to dock at a large English-speaking city. Their
principles were, perhaps, correct, but this particular city lacked, for
example, a Statue of Liberty in its harbor. A successful immigrant,
despite his somewhat unexpected address, the child won scholarships to
grammar school (Merchant Taylors) and eventually became a medical doctor.
He even married an Englishwoman. She turned out, unhappily, to be
displeased by Dr. Henry Selwyn's origins, learning only after their
marriage that he was once named Hersch Seweryn, and their marriage is not
a happy one. The narrator and his companion eventually get their own home
in Norwich but keep in touch with the physician. Some years pass.
Eventually, they learn that he has taken his own life. The second memoir
opens with another suicide, that of a long-retired schoolteacher, Paul
Bereyter. The narrator had once been Bereyter's pupil, after he had moved,
while in the third grade, with his family from a village to the town in
whose school Bereyter then taught. Now many years later, Bereyter walks to
a railroad track, awaits a train, and places his neck on the track when
one conveniently appears. Bereyter had started out as a schoolteacher--a
schoolteacher passionate about teaching young people--in the 1930s. Within
about a month of beginning his career, however, he had--as a
mischling with one Jewish grandparent--run afoul of the Nuremberg
laws and been removed from his job. After some years in France, he had
returned to Germany and (what else?) joined the Wehrmacht for the next six
years, seeing a good deal of Europe in the process. The Viennese woman
whom he had loved in the mid-thirties is recalled last boarding a train in
the early 1940s, not as a tourist but as a shipment. To go on and
summarize even briefly the third and fourth of these memoirs might be
useful. I would rather get out of the book's way; these summaries give
less than nothing of its feel, its taste, its texture. I must mention the
ways in which Sebald plays with chronology through all four sections of
his book. He pits a more or less idyllic pre-World War I era against the
1933-1945 period of German and German-Jewish history, and looks at both
from the perspective of a postwar, and essentially Judenrein,
German present which his narrator, like Sebald himself, appears to have
left for England. Like the dozens of old photographs that dot the pages of
this book, the now-vanished Jews of central Europe--grey and opaquely
mysterious--are an absent presence, a dead that, vampire-like(?), will not
only not completely die but that sometimes seem to return, seem even to
speak. Their absence, the vagaries (as well as the persistence) of memory,
and the constancy during all of its periods of this century's magnificent
legacy of exile, death, and destruction: these are among Sebald's
themes. No summary can do the ways in which he treats these themes and
the people through which he gives them spectral life anything that even
begins to resemble justice. This is a brilliant book. A very different kind of book, but one I also enjoyed
enormously, is Stephen Jay Gould's Questioning the Millennium: A
Rationalist's Guide to a Precisely Arbitrary Countdown (New York:
Harmony, 1997). Gould appears to take his impetus from widespread
anticipation of the upcoming shift from 1999 to 2000, a chronometrical
change that affects a world dominated by a Christian calendar in exciting
ways because of our culture's addiction to powers of ten. (I write this
Tout in the days just following a perhaps less exciting chronomentrical
shift, to the year 5758, as measured by a decidedly pre-Christian
calendar.) In this book, Gould ranges engagingly over such questions as
whether the upcoming millennium will begin on New Year's Eve 2000 or New
Year's Eve 2001; what sorts of issues millennialism and its close relation
apocalypticism arise from and raise; and the ways in which certain people
can make instantaneous calculations that turn dates into days of the week.
Gould discusses such fascinating questions as when human time will end,
which, as Archbishop Ussher knew, we can calculate--given certain
assumptions, of course--if only we know when time began, the matter on
which he concentrated his Biblical and related research. Ussher's answer
was October 4, 4004 B.C., at noon; and, as Gould points out, the nature of
his answer depends on a considerable amount of genuine scholarly effort
marred only by the assumptions he made that we no longer share. This
last point leads to one of the funniest passages in Gould's book. Gould
notes that, with only minor mathematical tinkering with some generally
accepted dates here and there, the world is scheduled to end this October
(that is, this month). Since Gould's book is not to be "officially"
published until November (although I got my copy in a bookstore in
September), Gould writes, a reader who encounters the book after October
is proving, yet again, the major flaw by which end-of-the-world theories
are burdened: viz., it doesn't. Or, more properly, hasn't
yet. Date-to-day calculations and calculators, however, are what really
grab Gould's attention, more, even, than the question of millennialism
itself. He has written previously about an acquaintance of his who,
despite severe mental difficulties, has developed, consciously and
laboriously, this particular talent. The same acquaintance shows up here.
I found Gould's discussion of this talent/affliction more than merely
engaging; I was moved--and, to be blunt, stunned--by this part of Gould's
book in ways I had not expected even while in the midst of reading it. I
have sixteen of Gould's books on my shelves. (I'm missing one that I know
about, Illuminations.) Despite his production of this rather
considerable ouevre--which omits his scholarly articles and
monographs--no one, so far as I know, has treated Gould as if he were a
writer worth paying attention to from a literary point of
view (whatever that might mean nowadays). I think this is a serious
oversight. Questioning the Millennium works the way literature
works. It does so with startling beauty. I might add that it also tells
you almost everything you will ever want to know about the upcoming turn
of the millennium. Since, in my case, what I wanted to know about that
turn was "nothing," that I read the book at all is probably indicative of
the fact that I've liked Gould as a writer long before this book convinced
me that he must be treated as if he were one. The University of Georgia Press published this year a
novel called Menachem's Seed by Stanford University chemist Carl
Djerassi. I'd read the two previous books in what, in the preface to this
one, Djerassi calls "a projected tetralogy in the genre of
'science-in-fiction,' which by my definition requires that everything I
specify does or could exist" (p. ix). I'd enjoyed both Cantor's
Dilemma (New York: Doubleday, 1989, and later a 1991 Penguin
paperback) and The Bourbaki Gambit (Athens: University of Georgia
Press, 1994, and then a 1996 Penguin paperback) enormously; I liked this
one, too--and maybe even a bit more. Cantor's Dilemma deals, in
part, with ethics in scientific work, The Bourbaki Gambit with the
"superannuation" of scientists and the ways in which they work together,
collaboratively, and apart. Both novels depict a system that favors
competition, rather than cooperation, for "the glittering prizes" that
various scientific fields bestow. Both deal with some of the obstacles
that women experience in trying to become scientists. Menachem's
Seed continues Djerassi's investigation of the ways in which
scientific labor continues to include women out, and also deals with two
different areas in which competition and cooperation are more than merely
intellectual issues. One is the area of human reproduction. Not only
does it take at least two to tango, it may also, in some instances, take
many more than two. In studying infertility, contraception, and overall
population and demographic trends, small armies of researchers and the
governments, institutions, and foundations that support and house them
need to cooperate as well as to compete. Djerassi portrays such matters
through the point of view of Melanie Laidlaw, research chemist turned
foundation executive at a foundation whose sole focus is human
reproductive and contraceptive matters. The other is the area of war and
peace, specifically nuclear weapons and arms controls, viewed here in part
through Melanie Laidlaw's participation in Pugwash-like conferences at
which such issues are discussed, and in part through the point of view of
Djerassi's other major character, the infertile nuclear engineer, now Vice
President of Ben-Gurion University in the Negev, Menachem Dvir, with whom
the widowed Melanie has what is not quite "an affair." The period in which
the novel is set--the late 1970s through shortly after Israel's 1981 air
raid that destroyed Iraq's nuclear reactor--is one in which these issues
are of intense concern. They involve the survival of "the Zionist entity"
(as Israel is called by one of the characters in the novel). Because the
Cold War is also still in full sway, the Israeli-Arab conflict plays out
against a background in which the United States and the Soviet Union
confront one another, and one another's nuclear arsenals, with capacities
for destruction that dwarf anything the Israelis and Arabs might
conceivably do to one another. For Dvir, neither Israel's survival nor
nuclear weapons are abstract issues. For Laidlaw, human reproduction is
not an abstract issue either. Widowed young, she is anxious to have a
child nonetheless. When her luck--could it be worse?--throws her in the
way of an infertile Israeli who is also married, she finds the issues even
less abstract. The novel makes its readers care about all these issues and
all these people. I thought it was a joy from beginning to
end. The nuclear
issues that Djerassi makes so important in Menachem's Seed interest
me more than casually. I am teaching a course this fall on fictions that involve the Manhattan Project, and,
for that course, read a number of books worth mentioning here. John
Hersey's Hiroshima is, of course, the American classic in this
genre. Available in several different editions, it needs neither my praise
nor my criticisms. It remains worth reading, even if at the same time one
must add that it remains worth reading with some skepticism. Masuji
Ibuse's Black Rain (published in New York and Tokyo in a Kodansha
paperback) is a novel about the experience of being under the bomb in
Hiroshima. Much of it is based on--in fact, reproduces--the diary of a
person who was there, as Ibuse himself was not. The novel also includes
"diaries" that Ibuse imagined into being. The story of a girl shunned by
the marriage market after the war has ended because she is a
hibakusha, a bomb-damaged person, and who, it turns out, does
indeed fall ill of radiation sickness long after the events of August 6th,
1945, Ibuse's basic plot has been used by numerous other writers. Ibuse's
version is nonetheless quite powerful. I would not be teaching the book if
I could not also recommend it highly. I do. I also teach--and
recommend--the three (very different) works included in a Princeton
University Press paperback edited by Richard Minear, Hiroshima: Three
Witnesses. All three of the writers whom Minear translates, unlike
Ibuse, were themselves under the bomb on August 6th. Their tone is very
different from Ibuse's, their books far more difficult to read than
his--"difficult" because they are so enraged, so shrill, and so detailed
that it is not easy for a reader to keep on going with them without
becoming disheartened. (I should therefore quickly add that I think it is
worthwhile doing so even if it isn't easy.) My students felt that these
books offered little more than what they had already got from reading
Hersey and Ibuse. I disagree strongly. The rage, the shrillness, the
detail: these are missing from Ibuse and Hersey. So is much sense
that political as well as moral issues were involved in the bombing. These
three books deal with these matters. They are worth the struggle to
read. Although I was not teaching it this fall, I also read Makota Oda's
H: A Hiroshimas Novel--also published as The Bomb and as
Hiroshima. Now a Kodansha paperback, this novel connects the
Japanese experience at Hiroshima (and Nagasaki) to issues of racism and
totalitarianism everywhere. Set for most of its first one hundred and
sixty or so pages not in Japan but in the American southwest, it parallels
the experiences of a number of Americans (of Native American,
African-American, Japanese-American, and Anglo backgrounds, some
civilians, some soldiers) and those of a much smaller number of Japanese,
including a Japanese-American stranded for the duration of the war in
Hiroshima, and some American P.O.W.s who are in Hiroshima when the bomb is
dropped. After that first section, Oda segues into more recent times--the
Vietnam War--but draws hallucinatory parallels between his "modern" and
his "older" characters and the issues they must face. At the novel's end,
everyone is dead. This is a harsh as well as a most
unconventionally-structured novel. Here, a reader's difficulty is due not
to the tone or the detail, but rather to the experimental nature of Oda's
fiction and the broad canvas upon which his story is drawn. Once again, I
think the difficulties are repaid by what the novel offers. John
Whittier Treat's 1995 study of Japanese nuclear literature has been a real
help to me as I have taught this class for the second time. It had not yet
appeared the first time I taught the class, and having it ready to hand
this time around has been a godsend. Writing Ground Zero: Japanese
Literature and the Atomic Bomb was published in 1995 by the University
of Chicago Press. It is now available as a paperback. Treat helps a reader
to make sense of a book like Oda's even while offering considerable
additional assistance with books that, like Ibuse's, seem far easier to
understand. He puts them into context, writes intelligently about their
interrelationships, and has written a truly useful work of
scholarship. The most recent of the books my students and I have read so
far is a play by Friedrich Dürrenmatt called The Physicists
(in paperback from Grove/Atlantic). If you don't already know this play--I
have had my copy of it since the mid-1960s--all I really have to say about
it is run, don't walk. Equally briefly, I will mention that my students
began the course by reading Jeremy Bernstein's tale of how he became a
physicist, The Life It Brings (now out of print but originally
published in 1987 and reprinted by Penguin the next year). Elegantly
modest, the book is enjoyable from beginning to end, even as we wince for
its writer who portrays himself making mistake after mistake after mistake
and--repeatedly--being embarrassed by them. By way of contrast, I also
asked my students to look at sections of Terry Caesar's Conspiring With
Forms: Life in Academic Texts, a book published by the University of
Georgia Press in 1992 about being an English professor. Caesar is
remorseless in just about every way you can imagine, at least within the
confines of a book that is from some points of view filled with remorse.
It is well worth reading. Last, and far from least, I asked my students
to read several sections of Paul Fussell's Thank God for the Atom Bomb
and Other Essays, a 1988 book now unavailable in several editions (out
of print in its 1988 Summit edition, it is out of stock in its 1990
Ballantine paperback reprint). Fussell offers what some have thought the
monstrous view that the bomb was not such a bad thing to use after all,
since it prevented young Americans (and young and old Japanese) from dying
in huge numbers during an American invasion of the Japanese home islands.
Among them would have been, he is certain, Lieutenant Paul Fussell, then
employed by the Army of the United States. Fussell, no monster, is far
brighter and infinitely more subtle than most of his readers.
(Wartime also received less than brilliant treatment at the hands
of many of its initial reviewers.) His point is rather more complicated
than their caricature of it. These chapters of his book are thus (I think)
much more depressing than its critics seem able to suppose. The
rest of the book offers a great deal of pleasure, too. For reasons that passeth understanding, I had never
read Madame de Lafayette's 1678 novel The Princess of Clèves
until this month, when I read the book in a 1961 translation by Walter J.
Cobb (rpt. New York: Signet, 1989). I had bumped into a copy while looking
for something else, decided that the moment had come, read it for no
reason other than fun . . . and loved it. A keenly-observed social
milieu, characters who feel overwhelming passion and display nobility and
integrity, and who ultimately choose renunciation of what matters most to
them: who could ask for anything more? "If she is not given a first name, this would testify to the
intensity of the book's social perspective. No one has any need to call
her by her first name. Not even her mother. A man dies for love of her and
he has yet to call her by her first name. (Unless of course I missed it.)
This is not that uncommon during the 17th and 18th century. Off-hand I can
think of a couple of characters very quickly whose first names we never
learn: Mr and Mrs Bennet. Then there's Colonel Brandon (who was named
Christopher in the movie). No one ever addresses Miss Milner by her first
name. "This sort of thing only happens in certain kinds of 20th century
novels & stories. A. S. Byatt has a ghost story and another highly
autobiograpical story where we never learn the narrator's name. I believe
Henry James never tells us the name of his neurotic governess (again a
ghost story). And then there's the second Mrs. de Winter whose name is
lovely, long, and hard to spell, but is not told. These omissions create a
specific kind of ambiguity and psychological characterization of the
unnamed personage and her relationship to others, which was probably not
meant in the 17th through 18th century." Interesting
suggestion. I
also read a wonderfully funny and brutal 1978 novel by Penelope
Fitzgerald, The Bookshop, now published in the United States for
the first time by Houghton Mifflin (a 1997 Mariner paperback). This is a
moral fable for our times, the tale of how to destroy yourself by
succeeding beyond the expectations or desires of your neighbors, and it is
thus a fascinating political as well as social document. Since its setting
is a bookshop, I was predisposed to like it; but it is even better than I
had dared to hope. Alas, retractions rather than more spleen seem
to be in order. Christopher Carduff, senior editor at Houghton Mifflin,
writes today: You seem to
think that "an indeterminate number of lines of type" were dropped at
pages 74/75 of our Mariner edition, no doubt where Christine exclaims,
when Mrs Gamart rudely raids the bookshop's lending library, "Do they were
hers she wasn't allowed to do that." Before going to press with our
edition, I asked the author about this phrase, and she said, Yes, that's
what she meant to write. You see, Christine is flustered here, and she is
speaking not English, but Suffolk. "Do they were hers" is the local
idiom, and Penelope Fitzgerald has preserved it here, knowing it sounds
strange to most English ears and even stranger to American ones. We urged
Mrs. Fitzgerald to make a change here for reasons of clarity, but at her
own request, the phrase stayed. You are right to observe that Houghton
Mifflin offset its edition of The Bookshop from the British
Flamingo sheets. If, however, you rigorously compare the Mariner edition
of The Bookshop to the British Flamingo edition of the same, you will find
that Houghton Mifflin not only read the book before we published it but
also took the trouble to make some 40 corrections in the text. Most of our
"patches" are quite obvious to eye, and appear in somewhat lighter, better
defined type throughout. This
word from Houghton Mifflin is welcome, if chastening; would that the
firm's initial response had been so informative. I must confess that
doubts about the way in which Fitzgerald was being published in this
country by Houghton Mifflin had put me off acquiring or reading the other
books by her that Mariner has issued; I will now look again at what's out
there. A note such as Mr. Carduff's does leave me wondering how bad the
market for books really is, if the remarks of some web-wielding bozo are
deemed to have enough power to warrant such an informative response as
(finally) this one. Many years have passed since, in 1948, Richard
Hofstadter published The American Political Tradition and the Men Who
Made It (New York: Knopf, 1948 et seq.). I found a hardcover
copy a year or so ago, and read it while I was sick--having (must I blush
to admit this?) never previously read it at all. I am much more acutely
conscious than I was when I first began to read Hofstadter's other books
in the 1960s of how his thought moves in a direction that would later come
to characterize many of the folks now called neoconservatives; much of the
book, in short, I disagree with. But while it is isn't worth anyone's
while to disagree with Irving Kristol, it remains, I think, very much
worth disagreeing with Hofstadter. The book is enjoyable, too. The man
could write. James Salter's The
Hunters, originally published in 1956--not too long after the Truce
ending hostilities had been signed at Panmunjon--concerns jet fighter
pilots in Korea. It has now been reissued, revised by the author
(Washington, DC: Counterpoint, 1997). I liked the book, although it has
plenty of the problems one might associate with a writer's early efforts
at fiction. Salter would grow up to become a much better writer than he is
here, even though in this incarnation the book, as noted, has undergone
some revision. The Korean War has attracted far less attention, in
fiction, poetry, or memoirs, than Vietnam, which is perhaps a matter for
some surprise. The active engagement of American combat forces was far
briefer than that required by Vietnam, to be sure--but the number of
American dead is about the same, some indication of the nature of the
fighting that took place on the Korean peninsula. Salter's novel is a
worthwhile contribution to the small literature that this war has evoked,
although, in view of the nature of the combat it describes, it will
surprise no one that the Korean landscape itself remains something of a
mystery thousands of feet below the level of the novel's action. More
important, however, most of the action is internal to the pilot upon whose
experiences the book focuses; Salter's might almost be the first war novel
I have ever read where the field of combat could be said, with only slight
hyperbole, to be the protagonist's navel. Having made this crack, I
should therefore add that I liked the book anyway, and maybe even
because of this eventually endearing peculiarity. Salter, himself a
veteran combat pilot in Korea, knows very well what he is describing.
Presumably this knowledge extends not only to the nature of aerial combat
for jet fighter planes and their pilots but also to the attitudes and
feelings of those pilots. The book has its flaws. Lack of readability is
not one of them, nor is lack of interest another. The adventures of a Brown undergraduate at Harvard's
graduate school, where early in the 1970s his hero studies English
literature and love, not necessarily in that order, is the subject of
Thomas Mallon's extremely funny 1988 novel Arts and Sciences: A
Seventies Seduction. Ticknor & Fields (the modern, New York,
incarnation of a publisher of that name) published the book; you should
find a library's copy somewhere and read it. This book is funny enough so
that some readers may want to wear rubber diapers while reading
it. Somehow, I missed getting to any Indiana
books this month, reading instead some books by a man from south of the
border, down Kentucky way. James Lane Allen's 1894 A Kentucky
Cardinal came to hand in a lovely illustrated edition published by
Harper in 1897. I so much enjoyed this surprisingly moving, though slight,
love story that I went right out and read Aftermath, its 1895
sequel--even though I had only a genuinely ugly 1967 edition (edited by
William K. Bottorff in the Masterworks of Literature Series, published in
New Haven, Connecticut, by College and University Press) in which to read
it. Bottorff also reprints some additional essays and stories (as well as
A Kentucky Cardinal), and these, too, are fun. If you can still
find his edition, it's probably worth taking a gander at, although Allen
is also the kind of writer any large-ish library near you is likely to
have. Allen is someone who takes his Kentucky setting very seriously
indeed; and he evokes it well. He is a writer who obviously read his
Thoreau with considerable attentiveness. So
warmly did I feel about Michael Shaara's The Killer Angels when I
wrote about that book last month
that, when I found a paperback reprint of his 1981 medical thriller,
The Herald (now published as a Pocket Books paperback under the
1994 title The Noah Conspiracy), I read it immediately. It didn't
change my opinion of The Killer Angels.
"Worked"--as in "worked through a fairly long novel,"
above--is not really le mot juste to describe how I read this
enormous novel. The truth is that I devoured Mulisch's book: even
though it is nothing to race through; even though it is so long that
"racing" would have been out of the question in any event (my schedule is
such that it took me about eight days [i.e., evenings], including a large
chunk of one weekend, to finish); and even though, as I think about how to
describe it, I worry that merely retailing its "plot" would suggest that,
by liking any such thing, I had finally taken leave of my senses
completely. Indeed, thinking too much about its plot is probably what
caused one of the innumerable run of dullards whom the newspaper of record
uses for its weekly book review section to give the book a tepid review,
one that, by its length, suggested a degree of grudging respect but which,
by its overall tone, indicated quite sufficiently that the novel had flown
by outside (and, I think, far above) the simple reviewer's somewhat
constipated intellectual range. I picked up The Discovery of
Heaven because its dust-jacket indicated that it dealt with
themes--including cosmological investigation (one of the two principals
whose friendship the book relates is an astronomer)--that I thought would
be interesting. That surmise turned out to be perfectly true, but the
book's themes are at once far vaster, more complicated, more social,
and--in some respects--more loony than that. The novel opens, for example,
in a place that most novelists tend to shy away from, and for good reason.
In fact, I don't think I have read a novel whose opening so surprised me
since, more than thirty-five years ago, I first read Charles Williams's
All Hallows' Eve, where the reader needs about three pages to grasp
an especially crucial, and essentially completely unbelievable, point
about the situation of the character whose point of view is at the center
of the novel. Mulisch's opening pages, the "hinge" on which the actions
that follow move, are very nearly as offputting. But Williams's novel
was worth reading, and Mulisch's, I have to confess, seems to me
much more than that, when all is said and done. The simple truth is
that I thought this a book that--like W. G. Sebald's The Emigrants,
about which I wrote last month--renews my belief that we live in an age
when truly wonderful novels continue to get written. I still don't want to
speak about its plot, lest I spoil the peculiarly jarring frisson
which its opening, and the book's plot itself, combine to create; but even
so this is one of those wonderful
novels. Does no
one in American publishing any longer possess even the tiniest
modicum of professional pride? This cannot have been a book for which
Viking would have predicted large sales; the firm deserves credit for
publishing it at all. But if it deserved publication, as it surely did,
and also deserved republication as a paperback, then might it not
also have deserved the decent minimum of attention that any
publication merits? Knowing no Dutch, I was able to correct some of the
(obvious) substantive errors myself from comparison of the English against
the Dutch text; other errors were simply self-evident typos that no one
had noticed. C'mon. Publishers who cannot respect their own products
cannot then pretend to be surprised when their products fail to elicit
enthusiasm. Or sales. I went on to read
two more of Harry Mulisch's novels available in English. The
Assault was published in New York by Pantheon (1985, translated by
Claire Nicolas White; the novel was originally published as De
Aanslag in Amsterdam in 1982). It is the best-known of Mulisch's books
outside Holland (perhaps because a movie exists [Addendum, November
25: I have now see the movie, as I had not when this passage was first
written; it is a very good film indeed.]). Short and powerful, The
Assault is a book about what one might (in a mordant mood) call a gift
that goes on giving: the deaths, by execution, of a small boy's parents
and older brother one night during the last months of the German
occupation of Holland. A collaborationist police chief is shot to death
by resistance fighters outside a row of four homes in Haarlem. The little
boy, his parents, and brother all happen to live in the one of those homes
outside of which the police chief's body is found by German military
personnel shortly after the shots are heard. Their annoyance rises above
petty distinctions between civilians and the military, and thus the
parents and older brother find themselves despatched from the world of the
living somewhat more swiftly than they might otherwise have expected. The
rest of the book moves episodically from the 1940s through the 1980s,
ending during an anti-nuclear weaponry demonstration in Amsterdam when the
little boy, now a middle-aged divorced father and physician, meets
unexpectedly one of his neighbors from the row of four houses and learns
why it was his house outside of which the dead police chief's corpse was
found. There is almost nothing that is pleasant about this book. It is
nonetheless an astonishingly powerful and moving novel, and I recommend it
with great warmth. I found it just as exciting as The Discovery of
Heaven and, because of its length, far more accessible. (I might add
that I recall no typos in the Pantheon paperback I read.) The
third of the novels by Harry Mulisch that I was able to read in English,
Last Call, was also published by Viking (New York 1989; it is, like
The Discovery of Heaven, disfigured by far too many typos).
Adrienne Dixon was the translator for a U.K. publisher in 1987; the book
was originally published as Hoogste Tijd in Amsterdam in
1985. Last Call is a very different kind of book from the other
two Mulisch books I've read, although it too deals with some of the same
themes found in those books--most especially the costs of collaboration
with the Nazis (Mulisch's own mother was Jewish, his "Aryan" father a
collaborator, which may explain a bit of why such themes resonate for
him). The protagonist is an ancient two-bit actor whose success, always
slender anyway, had evaporated completely after the War, when his work as
an actor in wartime Germany proved not to have been forgotten by an
ungrateful Dutch public. Now, in the early 1980s, and in his own old age,
he has been asked to star in a new play written for a marginal Amsterdam
theater about a turn-of-the-century Dutch actor whose farewell performance
in Shakespeare's The Tempest is in rehearsal and whose life and
love relationships are in upheaval. This is a book in which satire and
comedy dominate. Some of it left me laughing aloud (and anyone who
ever teaches Shakespeare should surely read this book!). But it is also a
story that retains many of the darker edges that characterize The
Assault and the complexities of The Discovery of Heaven. It
is, in short, not only the third book but also the third wonderful
book by Harry Mulisch I read last month. Now that I know about him, I look
forward to finding the few others of his works that were, once upon a
time, available in English. Meanwhile, I am agape with the sheer pleasure
and joy I have taken from what I have found so far. A friend recommended three novels to me dealing with
Jewish themes. Two of them I was able to read last month. The first I
got to was a book by first-time novelist and radiologist Aryeh Lev
Stollman. It must be the first book I have ever read set in the Jewish
community of Windsor, Ontario. (I have a student who comes from that
community; he knows of no other such book himself. He thinks that
Stollman's father may have been the rabbi of his own synagogue or in
charge of the yeshiva he attended.) The Far Euphrates (New York:
Riverhead Books, 1997) is about a little boy growing up the son of a rabbi
in Windsor. The boy's parents come from Toronto and Montreal; their best
friends are the synagogue's European-born cantor and his Canadian wife.
The cantor has a mysterious sister who works across the river in Grosse
Pointe where she is the head of Henry Ford's household (does this mean,
the little boy wonders, that she too is "rich"?). At some point, she comes
into conflict, real or imagined, with Ford's new wife, and leaves for a
different position in Florida. Eventually, years go by, and she
dies. These details give little of the flavor and none of the point of
Stollman's story, and without destroying the shock of the book I cannot
say very much more about it. The little boy eventually learns that the
cantor and his wife, who are childless, are so because of a problem he
himself is too young fully to understand: the reader, however, understands
instantly that the cantor, one of Dr. Mengele's surviving Jewish guinea
pigs, is no longer able to reproduce as a result of Dr. Mengele's tender
ministrations. The book is, in fact, a story of survival and endurance,
and its power comes through juxtaposing the slow growth of the little
boy's understanding against the more rapid growth of understanding that
the reader gains from Stollman's tale. This is not a happy book. It is a
very good one. The second of my friend's
recommendations is also a Holocaust novel. Cheryl Pearl Sucher's The
Rescue of Memory (New York: Scribner, 1997) is told from the point of
view of a child of survivors, and it is at least in significant part
rooted--as one imagines Stollman's book may be, as well--in the
autobiographical. The narrator's in-progress film and her upcoming
marriage both are interrupted, although not stopped, by the death in
Israel of her Tante. Despite the great distance between her Tante's
kibbutz and New York, her Tante had become the narrator's surrogate mother
in the wake of her real mother's (her Tante's sister's) illness and early
death. Now her Tante's death brings back to mind the horrors the narrator
has vicariously experienced, including her father's loss of a family
(wife, children) whom she knows only as legends; her mother's and her
Tante's experiences during the Holocaust; and other losses she has learned
about only more recently, including her Tante's lost love. At this time,
the ghost-ridden world of her own childhood also comes into sharp
focus. Like Stollman's, this too is a book about endurance, about
coping, about what is in effect the price that some surviviors and their
families had to pay for making a conscious and deliberate decision
to live. I found it difficult to read . . . and ultimately well worth
reading. Last month I wrote about Carl
Djerassi's Menachem's
Seed. This month I caught up with his Marx, Deceased
(Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1996), a novel about a writer who
wants to read his own obituaries and so arranges his own "death." Really,
what he wants to read are not his own obituaries but literary
critics writing about his work in some distant future in order to see if
it lasted--and thus the premise of this cute but slight work is flawed
from the get-go. It is engaging enough, but Djerassi has less
understanding of the literary than he has of the scientific people among
whom he works. I enjoyed the book, but it is not by any means up to the
standards of Cantor's Dilemma, The Bourbaki Gambit, or
Menachem's Seed. Charles Major's
Uncle Tom Andy Bill brought me back to Indiana this month. The book
was originally published in 1908; it became part of The Library of Indiana
Classics in 1993, and is available in paperback from that series,
published by Indiana University Press. The book has a plot, but it is a
mere melodramatic coathanger from which Major dangles a slew of short
stories for children about frontier life in Indiana, filled with bears and
Injuns. In these respects it is just like Major's earlier book, The Bears of Blue River, to which
it is in any case a kind of sequel. It is just as enjoyable as that book,
too. Last month my students and I read,
among other things, Heinar Kipphardt's In the Matter of J. Robert
Oppenheimer: a play freely adapted on the basis of the documents,
translated by Ruth Speirs (New York: Hill and Wang, 1968) from In der
Sache J. Robert Oppenheimer (Frankfurt-am-Main 1964). I've read this
play a number of times and it bears, of course, a more than passing
resemblance to the Oppenheimer hearing transcript. Kipphardt succeeds in
bringing life to this material without sacrificing its complexity
(complexity manifested, for instance, in such questions as: in this cast
of admirables, whom are "we" supposed to "root" for?). If you don't
already know it, the play is worth looking out for. Some months ago, I wrote about two novels by Alan Isler; this last month, I got
around to a recently-published volume of his short stories (four of them)
called The Bacon Fancier (New York: Viking, 1997). These stories
trace the vagaries of Jewish life over a number of centuries and vary to a
degree in interest; but in fact I liked them all. The opium-besotted
Coleridge, interrupted in medias res by a person from Porlock,
turns out--for example--to be interrupted by a Jewish person from Porlock,
originally from Italy, now a maker of musical instruments who lives with a
Christian woman to whom he is not married in that English equivalent of
Yechupitzville (East Overshoe). The story is not simply about this
"literary encounter"; that is a mere side-incident in a tale about
something else. Themes of marginality and exile are worked and re-worked,
and if they are, by now, slightly cliched with reference to diaspora
Jewry, Isler nonetheless treats them well. I found this book fun; you
will, too. Next semester, I will teach a
course on the comedies and history plays of Billy
Bard. As part of my slow preparation for that class, I reread for the
first time since I was an undergraduate a very old book by Eustace
Mandeville Wetenhall Tillyard called The Elizabethan World Picture.
The book remains available in paperback but I read the 1944 Macmillan (New
York) edition in the copy given me some years ago by the optimist who
first tried to teach me Shakespeare. I was attracted to such a rereading
by discussion on several academic bulletin boards during the preceding
month or so of the continuing utility of such views of the
sixteenth-century literary background as the ordered view Tillyard
promotes. Rereading his book, I was unsurprised to see how much I have
since abandoned--some of it consciously, some unconsciously--of the
approach to Renaissance literature in which I was raised. If for no other
reason, I found the experience salutary. It was also salutary to see how
much the book reflected its origin in the midst of World War II. There is,
for instance, something almost pathetic about its references to
American scholarship vs. its not quite complete--but
almost--profession of indifference (via lack of references) to what the
Brits had then been publishing. (Tillyard taught at Cambridge.) Some day,
someone will study this book as a cultural object in its own right. Done
well enough, that study should make for fascinating reading. I am now almost through C. S. Lewis's two-decades-later but
related book, The Discarded Image, rereading the copy I bought
during my first year of graduate school when the book was published and
which I read immediately (Cambridge 1964). The Discarded Image is
better written and more cantankerous than Tillyard's comparably simplistic
book--but it is also, at least in places, simply odious, as Tillyard is
not. Who, for instance, gave Lewis the right to pronounce--as the
pompous little twerp does pronounce (p. 113)--on what is "best" in
Judaism? At what yeshiva was little Jack a yeshiva bucher so that
he could, grown up, tell the difference? (If there is a difference.
I don't like this sort of nonsense any better from Bibi's minyans than I
do from this self-anointed ambassador for the Archbishop of
Canterbury.) Well-written or odious finally doesn't matter much. Like
Tillyard's earlier book, The Discarded Image is fatally flawed by
its assumption that people believed their own fairy tales. Hooey.
Even Jack Lewis didn't believe--and certainly didn't behave as if
he believed, while bonking older women or American Jewish left-wing
poets--his own fairy tales; presumably, that's why he told so many of
them. This book is one of his taller ones. It is made worse by its neglect
of other (e.g., classical) traditions that needed attention in Lewis's
self-defined context but would not have fit the book's hard-ridden thesis.
The Library of Congress catalogers who
provided its meager subject headings thought The Footnote a book
about footnotes, suggesting that they read its title, saw a bright light
go off over their own overworked heads, and got no further. It is a
book about footnotes, of course. Perhaps you had thought that topic
unimportant, but Grafton will quickly disabuse you of this delusion. In
addition, however, his book is also about the nature and history of the
historical enterprise, the ways in which professionals parade their
credentials in order to claim their professionalism, and how a discipline
becomes just that: a "discipline." These are also important topics--far
more obviously important than the footnote--and Grafton treats them very
well indeed. The sheer tentativeness of the kind of knowledge and
certainty that the footnote, or documentation in general, brings to
historical discourse is a large part of his burden in this book. But
footnotes themselves garner a great deal of loving attention in their own
right, and by the time you are in the middle of the book, if not before,
you have no more doubt than Grafton has that such attention is richly
deserved. As I read it, I kept anticipating the pleasures I would
receive when, writing this paean of praise about Grafton's book, I would
be able to quote one delicious passage, from its text or its footnotes,
after another. Instead, I have finally decided that this is a book its own
readers can and should relish on their own as they read it. I know few
scholarly books that fairly beg to be read aloud to one's significant--or
merely innocently nearby--others. This one hasn't a prayer of
evading such an outcome, and it damned well shouldn't. Grafton has written
a marvelous book. It is one well worth running to find. Had I not
already given it to myself, I would beg a copy for Christmas. By New
Year's Day I'd be wondering (if I didn't already know it) what else this
guy has written . . . and having a great deal of fun finding
out. Another historian whose work I admire
greatly is Natalie Zemon Davis. A friend pointed me at her retrospective
Charles Homer Haskins Lecture for 1997, "A Life of Learning," easily
available online (American Council of Learned Socieities, Occasional Paper
no. 39). Here Davis tries to recapture the feelings and tell something of
the story of what it was like to grow from a relatively sheltered Detroit
girlhood into one of the great historians of our time. If I said that her
essay manages to convince its reader of the excitement and interest that
that process provoked, as well as its importance, I would still have
failed to convey how exciting and interesting the essay itself is. Or how
moving. Alighting on an old friend's name in the text, presented in a
supporting role--and shouting aloud with pleasure as I did so (a person
nearby immediately guessed the name I must just have met)--I was reminded
yet again of the links in the chain of American scholarly women who have
supported one another's work (and persons) over the past century and more;
the person named, Rosalie L. Colie, herself wrote a moving essay about a
predecessor, Marjorie Hope Nicholson (but died before she could write such
an essay about herself). Davis has always been a master of short forms;
this lovely essay is no exception. The source of many different pleasures,
it's just a click and a "PRINT" command away. What are you waiting
for? Reading Peter Medawar's Memoir of
a Thinking Radish: An Autobiography (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1986) explained to me why Medawar attracted public awareness not only,
and perhaps not even especially, for his 1960 Nobel Prize in medicine (his
work was in the field of immunology) but also for scientific writing. He
produced a number of "popularizations" in the best sense of the
word--haute vulgarisation. Stephen Jay Gould has written a foreword
to The Strange Case of the Spotted Mice and Other Classic Essays on
Science, a recent (1996) paperback anthology from Oxford of Medawar's
miscellaneous writings that includes his devastating--and
hilarious--review ("[the romans are mine]") of Teilhard de Chardin's
The Phenomonenon of Man; Gould rightly views Medawar as one of his
predecessors in this difficult genre. I've been looking at his books for a
number of years, thinking "not now; later." "Later" finally arrived. This
book proved a pleasure. (It's now available in paperback.) The
Memoir retails a lot of stories, first, about a boy growing up in
Rio de Janeiro where, the son of a Lebanese immigrant to England and an
English mother, Medawar was born. It moves on to England, where Medawar
became a student at variously incompetent boarding schools, an ordinarily
appalling public school (Marlborough), and Magdalen College, Oxford. He
has a lovely comment on the impact of one of Oxford's better-known bookshops on intellectual life in
that university town, and goes on to discuss the nature of bookshops
generally in a way I found delightful. His depiction of one of my own
favorite dotty dons, C. S. Lewis, is
also engaging. Despite less than wonderful preparation (Medawar
loathed Marlborough and the entirety, so it seems, of the social
world implicit in the English public school generally), he nonetheless
quickly found himself working--and, it would seem, at a fairly high
level--at biological research and moving about in the English university
and research community with some ease. In this book, he speaks about the
nature of his work, the nature of his collaborations, and the ways in
which English university and research institute life are organized and
run. These are all matters that this American reader found both exotic and
familiar. He is personal about the familial world of his childhood, but
far more reserved about the familial world he himself went on to create
with his wife. He also speaks about what happens to superannuated
biologists when, after they have had a stroke or two, they nonetheless
muster the internal resources to keep on working. These parts of his books
are quite moving and impressive, almost as much for what they omit saying
about the grit with which Medawar must have persisted in his work as for
what they say about that persistence. This is a book I came to late:
lots of people before me have recommended it warmly. Perhaps, on chilly
balance, it is too anecdotal, too reserved, to rank with the very
best scientific autobiographies. No matter. They were right
anyway. My armchair Indiana travels
returned me last month to Meredith Nicholson when I read The Little
Brown Jug at Kildare (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1908). Hoo-boy!
This is not a book, I am sorry to say, that ranks with Nicholson's
brighter moments, some of which I remarked on earlier this year. In fact, it is
so dreadful that the only fun I could reap from the agony of
reading it--I did, I am sorry to admit, read it all--came from trying to
guess what in God's name the author thought he was doing in telling
this ghastly and stupid story. Two friends--a very rich man at loose
ends and his chum, a professor of maritime law at the University of
Virginia--separate at a southern train station. Almost immediately, they
find themselves in Raleigh and Columbia involved (unbeknownst to each
other) as advisors to two young women, mortal enemies, whose fathers, the
governors of North and South Carolina, have just been reported as having
engaged in a major contretemps at a meeting in New Orleans, largely over
the unresolved matter of a crook who operates in an area on the border of
both states. In the wake of their public disagreement, moreover, each
governor has disappeared. Their daughters thereupon simply assume the role
of governor of their states, and, with the assistance of our two heroes,
eventually wind up doing something more or less like declaring war on each
other's state as a side effect of their efforts to make up for what each
perceives as her own father's pusillanimity in not having dealt with the
crook till now. One does not want to rehash too much of the rest of this
story (not an attractive prospect in any event) lest one spoil it for the
reader--will there be any?--who follows me down this deceptively literary
path. What I finally think--perhaps incorrectly--Nicholson imagined the
novel's point to be is its consideration of two issues agitating
contemporary thought. It shows, first, Nicholson's disinclination to
approve of temperance (what's in "the little brown jug at Kildare"
is open to some question during the course of this book), and second--and
perhaps relatedly--his vivification of the ridiculousness of extending the
suffrage to women. As the two governors' girls amply demonstrate in the
course of the novel, women are completely unfit to exercise it. What
Nicholson has failed to notice--if my guess about one of his intentions is
at all close--is that our two male heroes are not more enchanting
exemplars of the ability of that half of the population to endure
exposure to the political process than his women are of the ability of
their half. The supply of stupid pills available to the
characters in this book seems endless. So did the book. Every so often I find myself reading what I've called
elsewhere "paleontological novels," and now Mark Canter has submitted yet
another entry in what is actually a highly specialized generic
sub-category, viz.: the fin-de-siècle Neanderthal kind.
Previous entrants in this unsurprisingly restricted (and often quite
lousy, although entertaining) field, so far as I am aware of them, include
John Darnton, Adam Popescu, and Philip Kerr. Strictly speaking, some
predecessors to Neanderthals people these pages; but I take their generic
functions in books of this kind to be entirely similar to those of H.
neandertalis himself. Canter's Ember from the Sun concerns
Ember, a Neanderthal woman born from the astonishingly preserved fertile
embryo discovered near Denali (Mt. McKinley) by a Mad Scientist--he is
also an Inuit, as it happens--visiting his chilly Alaska home on a
research trip. He arranges for her to be carried to term by a surrogate
mother, also a Native American ("Indian," not Inuit), and she is raised as
if she were a Native American herself by her mother and her mother's
husband, who cannot find it in their hearts to surrender her to the Mad
Scientist, as originally anticipated, after her birth. But Ember is a bit
odd. When all is said and done, after all, she is a Neanderthal
woman--and they don't show up every ol' day in and around Seattle. Her
skin color is golden. She needs extensive therapy in order to speak
properly: H. neandertalis, it appears, is a wee bit defective
around the vocal chords. And she has certain Remarkable Mental
Powers. Alas, the sharp bite of prejudice--the redskins amongst whom
Ember is raised are not fond, it seems, of goldskins; and her speech
defect comes in for a deal of ribbing from the children in her tribe, as
well--does not make for an unmitigatedly happy childhood. In addition,
Ember's Remarkable Mental Powers seem to require her to take on a position
in her tribe that she wishes she did not have to take on since, from
dreams, she knows she also has an additional burden, viz.: finding and
saving other Neanderthals (her real mother's family and friends)
who also have mysteriously survived into the late twentieth century (but
where? and how?). Enter an Environmentally Unsound
Corporation, bent not only on destroying Native American Ways (à
la mode Inuit) but also on spoliation of the environment with which
the Inuit had previously lived in Natural Harmony. When its workers
discover a cave filled with perfectly preserved Neanderthal bodies by the
truckload, the officers of this Unsound Company think it a Quick Pathway
to Riches to blow them the hell up because mining--yuck:
mining--will bring greater monetary returns. Right. Well, I read
it anyway. What can I say after I've said "I'm sorry"? Wanna hear how it
all turns out? Hey, do you even need to be told? The third of the books my friend
recommended to me last month--the other two were by Aryeh Lev Stollman and Cheryl Pearl
Sucher--I got to this month. It is Allegra Goodman's The Family
Markowitz (I read it in the 1997 Washington Square Press paperback
reprint of the 1996 Farrar original). Goodman's book is a
slice-of-Jewish-life novel . . . served up as slices. Its parts read like
New Yorker stories, from back when there was such an animal;
in fact, some chapters actually appeared as short stories there. More or
less in the vein--now much modernized, of course--of Arthur Kober's
wonderful (and almost completely forgotten) trilogy, Thunder Over the
Bronx (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1935), My Dear Bella (New
York: Random House, 1941), and Bella, Bella Kissed a Fella (New
York: Random House, 1951), all the book is missing are the Syd Hoff
illustrations that decorated (so absolutely rightly!) Kober's books. On
the other hand, Hoff's lower-middle-class, undershirt-sporting
zhlubs would suit neither the newer and even more upscale
New Yorker of Ms. Tina nor the world that Goodman presents the
Markowitzes as inhabiting, which Bella's family would have regarded as the
world of the yekkes. Unfortunately, the book's parts are better
by far than its whole. As short stories, I would imagine, the chapters
work, if not in any way that is the slightest bit memorable. As a book,
however, they resemble nothing so much as a Manhattan coffee shop lunch.
There's nothing objectionable, it's all served up very professionally, and
now and again there's even a good bit or two; but, if you never find the
same coffee shop again, your life will nonetheless retain the even keel on
which it had travelled up till that meal. Everything goes down well, true.
But it also disappears forever just as smoothly, leaving nary a trace
behind. Curiously enough, while the same general criticism could be
levelled at Kober's books--neither well-integrated "novels" but really,
like Goodman, a concatenation of episodes; and even farther than The
Family Markowitz from anything anyone would ever dream of
calling "literachoor"--they do linger in memory. If I were going to
be recommending "slice-a-life" Jewish ethnic fictions, I'd urge readers to
find a copy of one of Kober's books instead of Goodman's Family
Markowitz. He's much more fun than she is, perhaps because he's less
conflicted than she about the value inherent in mere entertainment and,
therefore, a lot less pretentious. Rather a
different kettle of novelistic fish is the new book, Night Train,
by Martin Amis (London: Jonathan Cape, 1997). "I am a police," the book
begins, in the voice of Detective Mike Hoolihan that the book's reader
will soon find both unmistakable and unforgettable. (In comparison with
the voices of Amis's characters--okay: it's an unfair comparison, I admit
it--the ethnicized voices of the Markowitzes, voices that Goodman has made
so "typical" that they end up lacking the merest modicum of
distinctiveness, fade into very nearly instant literary oblivion.) "I am a
police, and my name is Detective Mike Hoolihan. And I am a woman, also.
What I am setting out here is an account of the worst case I have ever
handled" (p. 1). This is an ugly book. It is about suicide, squalor, and
the slice of life that "a police" gets paid to look at, to look after, for
the rest of us. It depicts a world too tawdry to endure, people who are
too flawed to give one any reason to go on living among them. Amis sets
his dispiriting tale in an unnamed American city. The novel details the
investigation of a police officer's daughter's death. An apparent suicide,
but really a murder--her father, after all, knows a murder when he sees
one, doesn't he?--she was someone whom Mike had known for years, for Mike
had worked under the command of the dead girl's father and, while
recovering from an alcoholic breakdown, had lived in the same house as the
victim, cared for by her father and mother, watched over, in some measure,
by the young girl herself. It is her father who charges Mike Hoolihan to
find the murderer; the book offers up the results of this investigation.
When all is said and done, these results offer few surprises. One wishes
they had offered more, not because the lack of surprise is "boring" in any
way, or wanting in interest, but rather because it is so horrifying. I
take that horror to be Amis's point. The novel brings it off brilliantly.
Stylistically Night Train is a tour de force. Its moral
vision is gimlet-eyed, unblinking, unblinkered. Its characters--not
abstracted versions of "cops"--have individuality, quirks, peculiarities,
unpleasantnesses, difficulties. Their difficulties--some of them the
difficulties inherent merely in being human--are difficulties often
shared, in the world they all travel in together, by the perps and their
victims, as well. In another short novel, one now many years old, Conrad
creates a character who sails up a river into a distant heart of darkness.
Amis doesn't need characters who travel that far from places familiar to
him and to us; close to home--hell: at home--Mike Hoolihan finds
scraps of a world on which she can read, as we read alongside her, about
"the horror, the horror." As Conrad transmogrified the form of an
adventure story into something altogether different, so, too, has Amis
taken the police procedural and turned it into something rich and
strange. Unpleasant? Yes. Too bad. Read it anyway. Amis may have
squandered his popularity with Britain's literary elite through his
unseemly interest in getting paid what he temerariously thought himself to
be worth. Ms. Byatt, representing a slew of outraged bystanders, may have
been offended by his abhorrent display of bad breeding. Night Train
suggests not that Amis's effort was unwarranted but rather that it is
impossible. No amount of money will pay the author of Night Train
what he is worth. This is a magnificent book. Will Self interviewed Amis
in the October 1995 issue of The
Mississippi Review; see also (if you can see it: it has
been idiotically formatted for the web) the interview with Amis by
Alexander Laurence and Kathleen McGee, "No More Illusions:
Martin Amis is Getting Old and Wants to Talk About It", from
alt-x. My high opinion of the book is not shared by Luc Sante,
writing in the 21 January 1998 Slate. A
memoir by Lucy Grealy, Autobiography of a Face, appeared to some
acclaim in 1994 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin), and I had not only noticed it
at the time but also found a copy that I stuck on a shelf. Some books one
reads immediately. Others wait, more or less patiently. Medawar bided his
time; Grealy hers. I finally got around to reading her book this last
month, some days before I got around (for other reasons) to reading
his. I'd been speaking with a young woman who had just told me that she
wanted to become a reconstructive plastic surgeon when she grows up. A
more or less conventionally beautiful young woman, she completely
surprised me when she answered my stupid question--basically, how can
someone your age know that that is the specialty you want to enter?--by
pushing aside her hair and showing me the half of her own face which had
been repaired (mostly repaired) by reconstructive plastic surgery.
Well, that explained that. I immediately recommended Grealy's book to her.
I'd not yet read it myself but knew enough about its subject to know she'd
find it interesting. The very next day, I got a note saying she'd read it
straight through. It seemed time to take it off my own shelf, since it had
clearly impressed someone I now knew; and so I did. I too raced through
it. Before reaching adolescence, Grealy had been diagnosed with a cancer
that required removal of much of one side of her lower jaw. Lucky to
survive at all (Grealy did not learn the horrifying mortality rates
associated with her specific form of cancer until adulthood), the girl did
not feel lucky when, around the now absent bone, the rest of her
face collapsed. Decades of surgery would turn out to be required before
the damaged--literally "damaged"--face that surgery had left her
was once again made "normal." Grealy endured all this as a little girl,
and throughout her adolescence, high school, college, and the bulk of her
twenties. These are not the best of times (as if any other times
might be imagined for such problems that one might, even momentarily,
consider calling "good") in which to have an appearance, a self-image,
that others find threatening or dismaying. Her sense of self became bound
up in the ways that others saw her: she was her face. Her
Autobiography is a gorgeous rendering of how she ceased to be
entirely trapped by such a self-definition. It is a moving book, and I am
glad both to have had it stockpiled and ready and, now, to recommend it to
you. Released only a
few weeks ago, Starship Troopers is apparently making waves both at
the box office and in the minds of Movie Moralists who oppose its
violence. Dare I confess that not only did I go to see it but also, please
forgive me, I loved it? Don't get me wrong: it's a stinker. No doubt about
it. It plays with fascism. Its violence is mindless. Its politics almost
make Newt's look palatable. Its actors could have been replaced by sticks.
(The very best of them were computer simulations, a status to which the
human actors unsuccessfully aspired.) No matter. I found it a great deal
of fun. I've known the novel since I was a kid and, whatever Heinlein's
(or the movie's) politics, I like the book too much to carp greatly about
this movie version of it. For me, both book and movie exist in a realm
beyond criticism. It may therefore not surprise anyone to hear that I went
back, right after the movie, to reread the book version of Starship
Troopers for the umpteenth time (in the 1987 Ace Book reprint of this
1957 Cold War-era science-fiction novel). It's better than the movie by
far (mind you, many things are better than this movie: being better than
it is is not a difficult feat). Heinlein has attracted only one serious
reader with whose work I am familiar; like me, that reader has no taste at
all for Heinlein's politics but reads him anyway. He is the leftist
literary critic H. Bruce Franklin, whose study of Robert A. Heinlein:
America as Science Fiction was published by Oxford University Press in
1980. Heinlein may or may not be "good." I wouldn't know. What I do
know is that he is fun. A consortium of young
female academics calling itself D. J. H. Jones produced a nifty little
book several years ago entitled Murder at the MLA (Athens:
University of Georgia Press, 1994 [c1993]). With such characters as the
young littérateur whose thesis concerns Keats's laundry
bills, Murder at the MLA seemed a decent-enough send-up of the
literary academy: good, funny, nasty (but impersonally so), and right at
home in every aspect of its chosen milieu. This year, "Jones" has
published Murder in the New Age (Albuquerque: University of New
Mexico Press). Alas, it is a crashing bore. "Jones" has moved her central
character out of her academic milieu--alas: that is the milieu author(s)
and character clearly know best--and placed her instead in a new age
environment in Santa Fé. The book's mode is satirical but, if the
consortial satirists who are its author are familiar with what happened to
English satire during the eighteenth-century apotheosis of that genre, no
sign of their awareness comes through this tendentious account of it. If
you already know and liked Murder at the MLA, then perhaps
Murder in the New Age will not appall you. If you don't already
know the earlier book, however, you should find and read it before
having any thoughts about this newer book. In November, mentioning Jane Urquhart's recent novel, The
Underpainter (New York: Viking, 1997, reprinting the edition
originally published by McClelland & Stewart in Toronto earlier this
year), I spoke not about its virtues but rather about the incompetencies
displayed by reviewers for a certain "newspaper of record" in failing to
understand what this book is about. Since then, TLS, reviewing the
same book, has also demonstrated a literary sensibility that seems to my
eye unable to keep pace with the virtues of Urquhart's novel. The
Underpainter is told in retrospect by an American painter born in 1894
and now in his mid-seventies. Raised in Rochester and educated in New York
City (under the tutelage of Robert Henri; one of his friends is another
Henri pupil, Rockwell Kent), he had spent summers as a young man on the
north shore of Lake Ontario. There he befriended a person more or less his
own age who works in (and later runs) his parents's china shop and
practices the "minor" (decorative) art of painting on china. He watches as
his friend falls--apparently fruitlessly--in love with a young woman.
Later, in despair over her departure, and confronted almost simultaneously
by the start of World War I, the friend enters the Canadian military. He
leaves almost immediately for the western front, where he hopes to die. He
is wounded, as it turns out, but nonetheless manages to survive the
war and return to Canada. The painter will eventually rediscover him,
running his china shop, painting on china, and living with a woman who had
also served in the War as a Canadian army nurse. One of few Canadian women
shell-shock victims, she had been returned to Canada after the Armistice
and placed in a nearby asylum from which the painter's friend, so he
understands, rescued her. His own art studies had continued during the
war. As an artist, he finds himself attracted (like Rockwell Kent) to
"northern" light. (His style will evolve over the years; when we meet him,
in his seventies and back in Rochester, he has become a minimalist
painter.) He begins to spend his summers painting, not on the north shore
of Lake Ontario, but on the much more northern shore of Lake Superior. His
model is a young woman, a waitress in a failing resort there, who becomes
not only his model but also his mistress. The arrangement works for
fifteen years. The painter is not equipped to understand, let alone to
undertake, the difficult work of an emotionally committed love.
Eventually--and traumatically--he leaves both his mistress and his Lake
Superior paintings behind. The work of this retrospective novel is to show
us the relationship between that decision, a terrible crisis in his
understanding of his friend's life and loves, to which he blunderingly and
ignorantly contributes, and his sense of himself and his life's work as an
artist. All of this must sound like melodrama, I imagine, and I also
suppose that both the Times and the TLS reviewers were put
off by it. I was not, and thought about the book in very different ways
from the ways they seem to have experienced it. It is, to begin with, a
World War I book. Easy for Americans to forget the impact on the vast
unknown refrigerator to our north of World War I; not so easy for them,
for they found it a crushing blow, and yet at the same time a
"nation-building" experience. (I found this aspect of Urquhart's book
almost unbearably painful. How many more years must go by before
that War in which our century began becomes simply a part of the dead
past? It hasn't done so yet.) It is also a book about art, about (in part)
its varied demands and the artist's incapacities to live up to those
demands, and about the costs artists pay for their ability to work as they
work, whatever demands they may think they are meeting or refusing as they
do so. That it is also a book about love may be equally obvious, by now:
the interrelationships between the ways in which the characters meet, pay,
and refuse love's demands and the ways in which they do the same with art
and with friendship is another of the book's themes. I found this book
breathtakingly beautiful as well as painful. Neither the Times not
the TLS review convinced me to alter this view or even to admit
that I might be wrong. I went on to read Urquhart's first novel,
The Whirlpool, in the edition published in the United States by
David Godine (Boston 1990; the Canadian edition was published in 1986).
This is a good novel too, and had I not already read the more recent one I
might have been completely bowled over by it. As it is, I merely recommend
it warmly. The book has an opening that is astonishingly funny: the
dying Browning toddling his bod' through Venice while irritatingly unable
to shake the inner voice that recalls one of his youthful enthusiasms and
recites verbatim (for his inner ear alone) huge chunks of Shelley's
poetry--this even though, in Browning's maturity, Shelley's had become
something he knew to be a bad influence and one he had shaken off. Or so
he had thought. The book then switches to its main burden, the convoluted
tale of some pretty odd ducks in Niagara Falls late in the nineteenth
century. One is a poet sent south (to Niagara Falls) for his health. He
finds himself obsessed by a poetry-reading woman, herself married to a
military officer and historian who keeps expecting the damned American
army to return across the Niagara River at any minute. Meanwhile, he is
busily collecting materials for and rewriting (this time correctly) the
history of a battle that took place in Niagara Falls during the War of
1812 and was misrepresented as an American victory. A widowed undertaker
and her very strange little boy complete the picture. This proves to be a
very creepy crowd indeed; as you might expect, they do some pretty creepy
things. As a depiction of late nineteenth-century provincial life, I can
imagine little that would be more convincing--or more eerie. Framed as
these folks and their stories are by Browning dying in Venice--the book
ends by returning to him there, on his deathbed--the novel's incidents
come to seem almost as if they were provincial vignettes drawn from
dramatic monologues never quite written for this level of society
or place but nonetheless playing thmselves out in the dying poet's
brain. The Whirlpool is not an easy book. By contrast The
Underpainter is, if I may put it this way, a lot more immediately
rewarding--even if read in the shallow manner of a newspaper-of-record
reviewer. But The Whirlpool is also a powerful and a compelling
read, and I thought it well worth the attention I tried to give it. Jane
Urquhart has written some additional books--poetry as well as novels and
short stories--and I will look for them with pleasure.
Return to Traister's non-current touts (beginning with August 1995, when this home page was
begun).
1997 INDEX: 1996 1998
Return to Traister's current touts.
You can
send Traister e-mail concerning this page at
traister@pobox.upenn.edu
As I walked through our non-university bookstore,
looking at the stacks of spring semester texts in an effort to see whether
any of mine had happened to wander in alongside all the rest of them, this
one caught my eye. I picked it up "on spec," as it were, and took it home,
planning to get to it sometime before I die, and then made the mistake of
dipping into it. Alas.[20 January: Contrary to my intention, expressed last month, not
to revise these touts after they were posted, I now have to add here that
I was wrong about this last point: it is not being taught by a
historian. The novel had not yet been properly located in the bookstore
when I happened upon it, so I found it in the bookstore's history section;
but it is in fact being taught by an extremely clever person in the
Department of English. A mistake I am glad to have made . . . and to
confess.]
How
shall I make you understand this book, reader of mine [so Eggleston
apostrophizes us at the beginning of chapter 25, "Ann Eliza"], who never
knew the influences that surrounded a Methodist of the old sort. Up to
this point I have walked by faith; I could not see how the present
generation could be made to comprehend the earnestness of their
grandfathers. But I have hoped that, none the less, they might dimly
perceive the possibility of a religious fervor that was as a fire in the
bones.
[20 January: If I can be
forgiven one more late addition, I have now read Eggleston's
Roxy (1878), also a lovely book. Its ostensible subject is love
and its specific concern the ways in which people make mistakes in love,
but its real subject is conversion and the living of a truly Christian
life. To be sure, it is melodramatic. Its characters are small town and
limited, their horizons extending only accidentally as far away as Ohio
(Roxy is set in Indiana, in a town that feels to me like Vevay or
maybe Madison). When they behave in an ugly manner, they are very ugly.
When they are noble, they positively gleam. When they sacrifice, you want
to scream at them. So what? All these carps turn out to be mere minnows: I
couldn't put the thing down. Here's one more Eggleston for you to
try!]
February
1997
March 1997
April 1997
[Tony's]
mother had a new Model A Ford . . . [and they] took one weekend trip to
Washington, D.C., which was where they had moved the national government
after Philadelphia had started it going properly between 1790 and 1800. A
lot of people from all over the country were taking history trips that
summer [1929, before the Crash]. Some of them certainly didn't know much
about Philadelphia.
By the time a reader reaches the novel's
final words--"'Coming,' he called, and walked to the house, to join his
wife and dress for dinner" (p. 326)--Francis Biddle's song of rage and
anger has long since palled, for the book's outcomes are all too obvious;
all that kept me going was the force of the rage itself.The filthy streets, the disorder and
monotony, the sour ugliness were but the outer shell which the spirit
within had built. Pittsburgh might be dirty, New York cruel, Chicago
blatant; yet behind their sprawling vitality burned or flickered the flame
of an aspiration. You could blow on it, and watch it flare to achievement.
It didn't so much matter than Philadelphia had no art, no criticism, no
newspaper that had wit or influence, put up with a shabby opera and stale
plays; but it did matter that her people accepted the second-rate, and
lived in the tenuous dream of a moderately thin past, or the lazy
acceptance of an over-padded present, without gaiety and without
earnestness, mechanical, content, indifferent (p.
252).
. . . and so on. No
Tony Lawrences here! The trouble with this moment is that nothing in
earlier portions of Biddle's novel has built to it and nothing emerges
from it later on: Paul, Sandra, Randy, and the rest of his characters
exhibit, in their self-absorbed sexual dances, precisely the point that
Paul's Bulletin colleague Joe Vane makes here about the Main Line
crowd. Philadelphia is the last thing they think about. When they
do think about it, it is without much interest or affection. They work
there. They don't live there.Joe Vane was discussing Philadelphia
politics. "The trouble is, Johnny, very few people give a good goddam. The
old families, the ones who helped build up this metropolis--where do most
of them live now? Out on the Main Line, or in Chestnut Hill or some nice
cozy suburbs. Sure, the men work in the city, but they've lost touch with
it, with what goes on inside. And by and large they don't care--that it's
overrun with graft, that the streets are dirty, that the water tastes like
last year's garbage--or even that the pigeons have cirrhosis of the liver,
or whatever the hell the medical profession claims they spread
around.
Uh-huh. That sort of sums up Ellen, one of
the less attractive characters--mind you, the choices are legion--in this
nice and witty book. It also sort of sums up Tina Brown. A novel that can
do this sort of nifty skewering of the deserving need-to-be-skewered, and
do it as a mere aside, will provide the appreciative reader with no small
amount of sheer fun.So not only
had The New Yorker hired Ellen Simon to write for them, they had
given her a research budget [, Nina Fischman, Piesman's heroine,
realized]. The most manipulative and self-promoting girl at Bronx
Science was writing for The New Yorker. William Shawn would have
thrown Ellen out of his office in thirty seconds. But Nina could see how
Tina Brown might think she was a real find (p.
68).
Translations--for instance, "The Sounds," by Vasily
Kazantsev, and "Recruits," by Moshe Dur--introduced me to poets I had not
previously known. And then there is a short poem such as "Within a Stone's
Throw of Greatness":. . . A man weeps,
privately, another
ponders
odd uses of a word like concept,
and below them the
featureless landscape
keeps slipping farther
away.
Not every poem works, at least,
not for me. Some are too "academic"--too calculatedly "felt"--for
my taste. But Taylor's poems are worth a look-see. Some will work for you
as they worked for me.
Among the guests I talked to once
at a
wedding in the late sixties--
back when the principals at such
affairs
were my own friends, not my children's--
there was the
father of the groom,
who turned out to be a vice-president
with the
Hartford Insurance Company.
It had been almost thirteen years
since
the death of Wallace Stevens,
but I put the question anyway.
I even know why you're asking.
I'm aware that he
wrote poetry.
I never read any of it,
but I'll tell you this:
he
was a hell of an underwriter."May 1997
The official Yankee Division
history, for which I was a presumed source, barely mentions
Bézange-la-petite, glossing over the episode in a way that makes it
impossible to disover what actually happened or whether, in fact, anything
happened at all. It's both empty and evasive. . . . Of course, the
careless loss of almost an entire platoon--and more--is not necessarily
what divisional histories are designed to commemorate. The inflated smell
of distant glory is more their style. . . .
Short and sweet, this is not a book that
requires either an interest in Indiana writers or a devotion to The Lost
Cause to ensnare a reader.[It] was no ordinary incompetence
which governed this department of our service in all its ramifications.
The breadth and comprehensiveness of that incompetence were its
distinguishing characteristics. In failing to furnish anything to
transport, it neutralized its failure to furnish transportation, and the
army that fought at Bull Run would have been as well off anywhere else as
there, during the next ten days. (p.
76)
John Hollander's
Cupcake might have enjoyed such a thought; so, too, William H. Epstein
(whose thoroughly brilliant and enormously instructive essay,
"Counter-Intelligence: Cold-War Criticism and Eighteenth-Century Studies,"
ELH, 57:1 [Spring 1990], 63-99, I happened to read--for completely
different reasons--more or less at the same time I read Kanon's novel). I
liked this book and recommend it warmly.. . . what had Chalmers really
meant? He went over the conversation in his mind. Was it possible--almost
a comic thought--that the language of espionage was no different from that
of a pickup, all the words that meant something else, verbal sex, the
invitation not really offered till it was accepted? (p.
359)
Relationships between men and
women, parents and children, innocence and experience: all get gimlet-eyed
treatment in this short book of poems, its language as precise as a razor.
. . .
Imagine
how a small child
would point to a
fire
someone's lit in an oildrum
on the deck of [a?]
ship
and, endlessly curious, would begin
to
lean over right there.
It's at that moment the fire looks
of joy, the brightness
(O
flickering world!)
that consumes us.(from "Violative," pp.
24-26)
June 1997
A
chastened, realistic cultural studies would . . . not claim to be
politics. It would not mistake the academy for the larger society. It
would be less romantic about the world--and about itself. . . . If we wish
to do politics, let us organize groups, coalitions, demonstrations,
lobbies, whatever; let us do politics. Let us not think that our academic
work is already that. (p. 82)
The two become friends. Michael helps
Hirsch with his English, Hirsch teaches Michael Yiddish, and they share
the excitement of the new baseball season, for baseball has become one of
the Rabbi's routes into "America." But both Michael and Hirsch run into
difficulties with neighborhood antisemitism. The backdrop of Brooklyn
during a period when not only antisemitism but also another kind of racism
affects the entire borough--for this is the season when Jackie Robinson is
first called up by the Dodgers--is well drawn.[Michael] turned to go and then saw the
picture of the woman again.
This
is all pretty funny; but a book that starts out as a satirical view of the
excesses of the academy, during a period of its relatively recent history
that Kraven surely and Isler apparently disliked, turns out to have other
fish to fry. Kraven himself becomes the object of the novel's attention,
and of his own. Not a "normative" voice in this satiric world at all,
Nicko is very much under scrutiny. In one sense, a reader can watch the
novel veer off course as Isler turns his attention from the general fire
to a particular frying pan.'Right there in the Apologia Gryllus
records an actual incantation of this Myrddin, a powerful spell he says
the meshugana always muttered over the sacramental wine. . . .
Here, this is how it begins.' He thrust . . . [a piece of paper] at
Kraven: BOREASQUE TAURUS ADONAIS. 'Nu, what you think of that?'
If this were all Isler's novel gave us,
it would be enough. The teacher who ever teaches Shakespeare and does
not read this book is going to be a duller teacher for its
omission. Life at the Emma Lazarus is far more comic, far more easily
libidinous, and, it seems, finally far richer, than the life Isler
depicted in Nicholas Kraven's world."It was felt," said Lipschitz, licking his
lips, "that all these references to 'Christian burial' might offend some
people. After all, many members of our audience are orthodox, not to say
fanatic. How does it look? So we thought, what difference we get rid of a
few words, make substitutions."
"Not believing
myself to be a survivor," says eighty-three year-old Mr. Korner; and even
at the early point in the novel at which we read them these are terrible
words.. . . the Magda Damrosch who broke my heart
in Zurich all those years ago . . . went up in smoke at Auschwitz in 1943.
For this appalling piece of information I am indebted to Egon Selinger,
who wrote from Tel Aviv in 1952, finding me heaven knows how. He was
looking for other survivors. Not believing myself to be a survivor . . . ,
I never replied. (p. 9)
Survival, dignity: these are the things
that Alan Isler's gorgeous novel is about. Run, don't walk, get a copy,
and read it.The problem as I came to see it in the camps
[he tells us much later] was not the terror or the physical
deprivation or the pain or even the utter lack of hope, the gray misery of
squatting in filth for weeks and months and years while the mad dance of
death went on all around. The problem was how in such circumstances to
retain the merest shred of human dignity. (p.
225)
July 1997
Do "we" all
agree? Well, maybe yes . . . and maybe no. Page after page is filled with
stuff that gets the ol' mental juices going, exciting agreement, provoking
argument and disagreement, and inciting the reader to thought. If there
is more to ask of a book, I am not sure what it is.Art is everywhere [Shepheard writes]. As
life has become detached from the wilderness, the human world is
everywhere. I see music as a throbbing accompaniment to every moment of
contemporary life, a sort of continuous current of emotion, that
incorporates what poetry used to be. I see drama as a hugely expanded art
that includes films and novels, which even has a new name, literature, and
sucks in clothes and manners to itself as well. Architecture? Would we not
all agree that architecture is much more than tombs and palaces and
temples now? (p. 36)
August 1997
September 1997
October
1997
ADDENDUM,
20 December 1997: Professor Ellen Moody today wrote a note to C18-L
that I cannot resist quoting here:
" . . . my query . . . [i]s sort
of silly, but I'm curious. Does Madame de Clèves have a first name?
I am rereading this novel and it suddenly strikes me that although I have
learnt Monsieur de Nemours' first name (Jacques), I am almost to the end
and I've not got a clue what is Madame the Princess's first name. Did I
miss it?
ADDENDUM, 9 March
1998: I had originally gone on from that sentence to write that "I
would therefore do nothing but heap praise upon its American publisher for
making it at [last] available here . . . had they done anything so simple
as to proofread the damned thing. Instead, they dropped an indeterminate
number of lines of type from a crucial episode in the book. . . . " I went
on to criticize the indifference I found in a Houghton Mifflin staff
member's reply to my e-mail inquiry about the lacuna. Then, on December
16, 1997, I added that "A friend outside London, after reading this
sorrowful plaint, sent me a copy of a UK edition (Flamingo, a
HarperCollins paperback imprint, dated 1989)" which showed that "the
American publisher has reprinted the uncorrected sheets of the English
edition, which--on its page 74--omits the same words at the same point as
the Mariner Books/Houghton Mifflin paperback." More words of opprobrium
follow, directed now at Houghton Mifflin, HarperCollins, and Duckworth
(the original publisher).
A friend read your "Touts" review of Penelope
Fitzgerald's The Bookshop (December [i.e., October] 1997)
and forwarded it to me. As the editor of the book, I was pleased by your
praise of this wonderful novel, and pained at your accusations that
Houghton Mifflin does not adequately proofread its books.
Quite clearly, my Suffolk is wanting.November 1997
A DIGRESSION: I had planned to write next month
about a book I've just read this week, but the lateness of this November
Tout--I am writing it near the end of the month, rather than at its
beginning, on the thirty-fourth anniversary of the sudden demise of Mr.
Seymour Hersh's favorite recent American President [34 years ago! I was
21]--means that I have today seen a "Books in Brief" mention in that same
newspaper of record's November 23rd book review section of Jane Urquhart's
The Underpainter. Just published in the United States by Viking,
The Underpainter was published originally in Canada by McClelland
and Stewart. The reviewer seems utterly without a clue about how to read
the book. She doesn't even know what it is about. She wonders if it is an
"indictment of chilly modernism" in the visual arts; she doesn't seem to
have noticed that it is not only a book about an artist but also a war
novel. Her ineptitude allows her nothing but wishy-washiness; even writing
in brief and in a newspaper noted for its agile appropriation of the ex
cathedra voice, she lacks confidence in her own judgment (quite
rightly) and comes to no clearly-articulated conclusion about the book
that will help the newspaper's literarily challenged readers to decide
whether it is one on which their precious dollop of attention might be
spent. Her incompetence, however, carries its own message: no
attention need be paid a book to which such a dope has been assigned the
chore of review. As a species of cultural incompetence residing at the top
of the food chain, the newspaper of record is, of course--and has long
been--without peer. As it declines into colorful neoconservatism and
reaction, fueled by such local geniuses as A. M. Rosenthal and Richard
Bernstein, one might have thought it would strive at least for the
illusion of intelligence. No such luck. I will say more about The
Underpainter next month; meanwhile, take these remarks as early
indicators of praise to come. Urquhart's brilliant book is worth a
detour.
ANOTHER DIGRESSION: Ill-humored to
the end, even while dishing out great praise, I must add that
Viking's proofreading of this book is simply execrable. It would be
pointless to add up the number of typos, large and small, that I found as
I read through this novel's great length. In truly anal-compulsive
fashion, I checked my hardback against the paperback reissue and found, to
my annoyance, that only one of the errors I had caught had been
corrected (and I am not a professional proofreader).
December 1997
January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December