Intellectual Curiosities and Provocations

Fiction

LitKicks Reviews: May 2006

by Levi Asher on Thursday, May 18, 2006 02:44 pm


We usually review a large proportion of indie publications, poetry chapbooks and the like, but today we're looking at three hardcover titles, all from large publishers. Here's a diverse set of new books that might interest you:

Come Back by Claire and Mia Fontaine

This memoir by Claire and Mia Fontaine tells a familiar story -- teenage bad attitude, growing pains, massive drug abuse, a painful recovery. What makes this book unique is the mother-daughter concept: Mia Fontaine is the book's topic, but she and her mother Claire take turns telling the tale. Claire opens the book with a harrowing tale of Mia's toddler-age sexual victimization by an eccentric hippie father. The first cut is the deepest, as Cat Stevens says, and her mother sees Mia's later traumas as a natural progression from this disturbing start.

The dual narrative format provides a fascinating study in contrasts, and the voices sharply outline the separate roles the mother and daughter play in this relationship. Claire seems to be bursting with a story to tell, and she's a skillful writer with a vivid style. But Mia's contributions tend to be short, gritty and stubbornly un-decorative. Claire seems more excited about Mia's recovery than Mia does, which seems to point to some larger truth about the nature of addiction recovery: it is a lifelong hard grind, and to the recovering addict the process rarely feels like joy.

Mia's description of her painful and invasive recovery regime forms the center of this book. The mother's story sometimes recalls a classic of this genre, And I Don't Want To Live This Life by Deborah Spungen, though Come Back happily ends differently. My one complaint is that some of the expressions of maternal love could be cut, and nobody should ever describe a scene where a beautiful child runs laughing with her family on the beach. But this flaw is easy to overlook ... Come Back is an honest and unusual book, and I would not be surprised if other families in crisis discover it to be helpful.

The Elagin Affair by Ivan Bunin

Ivan Bunin is a 20th Century Russian writer who endeavored during his lifetime to represent his country's tremendous literary tradition. He lived in exile in France after the Bolsheviks took power, remaining highly active and winning the Nobel Prize in 1933.

But Bunin's legacy is more literary than historic; this author intended to write like his great forebears, and so his stories are full of grand passions, violent philosophical arguments and sociological perversions. The best of his stories have been newly translated and published as The Elagin Affair.

In the title story a soldier murders the woman he dearly loves, and we slowly find out why. I am constantly reminded of the great tradition of Dostoevsky, Chekhov and Tolstoy ... almost to the point that I can't figure out where the tradition ends and Bunin begins. But Bunin's characters and plots are his own, and his original presentations made him more popular during his lifetime than he is now. This new book aims to correct that. If you're interested in Russian literature, this book has a place in your collection.

The Stars Above Veracruz by Barry Gifford

I wanted to love Barry Gifford's book of interlinked short stories, The Stars Above Veracruz. The author will always be in my good graces because of his work on Jack's Book, a classic oral history/biography of Jack Kerouac published back in 1978 when very few people cared about Kerouac. He also wrote the novel that became David Lynch's Wild At Heart, which is somewhat impressive, despite the fact that this is Lynch's worst movie.

I can't say I loved Gifford's new collection, but I did like it. His voice is crisp, his tall tales of colorful shady characters around the world are mercifully short, and I really like the way he ends each tale with a small koan-like poem. On the negative side, the author didn't seem to be trying very hard to write great literary fiction ... I sense an author who feels he has little to prove. I also have a problem with the fact that a mysterious character called Ropedancer seems to thread through various of these pieces. I don't like mysterious characters called Ropedancer anymore than I like laughing children running along the beach.

Each story is set in a different locale -- Romania, Buenos Aires, San Francisco -- and they often consist of small anecdotes told via overheard bits of conversation. In one story, a man is murdered by a romantic rival on a small tropical island, but few seem to mind, because "Nobody liked George Morgan". The amusing set pieces form some kind of Paul Bowles-esque worldly quilt, I guess, but I did wish for a greater thrust from somewhere within. Like the faint stars in the Veracruz sky, these stories may burn brightly somewhere, but they feel cool and distant from where I stand.

Want a Book?

The publicist for Come Back sent me two copies by mistake (I'm noticing that publicists tend to do this). Would you like to read this book? Be the first to email me your mailing address and it's yours (we'll throw in a copy of LitKicks Action Poetry too).[UPDATE: the prize has been claimed, and is on it's way to the Guangdong province in China.]





Neo-Human, All Too Neo-Human

by Levi Asher on Tuesday, May 16, 2006 09:25 pm


Michel Houellebecq's newest novel is about a future Earth ravaged by disasters and inhabited by two classes of humans: a small number of highly evolved and medically improved "neohumans", and a starving race of devolving savages who subsist in the uncivilized territories outside the settled zones. We are with the neohumans, who have discovered a remarkable way to become immortal: their bodies are genetically duplicated at the end of each generation, and their original memory systems are continually ported from each aging body into the body's younger equivalent.

The hero of The Possibility of an Island is a neohuman variously known as Daniel1, Daniel23, Daniel25 and so on, who lives on the Canary Islands near Africa with two female neohumans named Esther and Isabelle. They all practice a religion called Elohimism, the common faith of the neohumans.

I find the novel's concept exciting because it refers to a classic metaphysical question: are our entire souls implanted in our memories? If I transfer my memory system into an precise implementation of my genetic blueprint, has this copy suddenly become me? If so, what is left behind in the old me? Philosophers like Daniel Dennett have examined this question, but Houellebecq's new novel simply lets the scheme happen and shows us where the chips fall.

Michel Houellebecq is a French sensation, a postmodern brutalist whose fables recall those of Kurt Vonnegut and Chuck Pahlaniuk. But he is much darker and more cynical than Vonnegut, and he's probably even nastier than Chuck. He's also funny, with something like Douglas Coupland's droll computer-age satire combined with Norman Mailer's political outrageousness, and to top it all off there's a bit of William Vollmann's show-offy super-intellectualism.

That's some happy meal, and John Updike takes a bite and makes a face in his well-written New Yorker review of this book. John Updike is probably my favorite literary critic, just because his sentences are so damn amusing, and he doesn't disappoint in this thoughtful and tempered smack-down.

The usual Houellebecq hero, whose monopoly on self-expression sucks up most of the narrative's oxygen ...

Updike delivers the knockout punches early in the article, then props the pummeled author up and admits that he liked one of his earlier novels. But Updike makes the book sound interesting even as he tells us to skip it, and some of his criticisms seem cloaked, as when Updike criticizes Houellebecq's sentiment that "All energy is of a sexual nature" (this would certainly seem to be an Updike-ean thesis).

Later, Updike describes a dull moment in the novel as "an interminable blog from nowhere", which is a sudden unexpected swipe at my profession when I thought we were in the middle of beating up this French guy. Well, it's such a funny line I'll forgive Updike for it, even though it's totally unfair (A New Yorker writer is going to talk about interminable?) ...

Anyway, it's an entertaining review , but I think I'm going to read the book even though Updike doesn't like it. It sounds like my kind of story.





Of Human Bondage, and the Lost Art of Melancholy

by Levi Asher on Thursday, May 11, 2006 10:25 am


I caught an old black-and-white movie on cable TV last night, Of Human Bondage, based on the popular 1915 novel by W. Somerset Maugham and starring Leslie Howard as a tragically depressed young intellectual and Bette Davis as a flighty waitress who breaks his heart.

I didn't expect or even want to spend two hours watching this movie, but I was drawn in by the lucid photography and exquisitely mannered acting of the 1934 drama, in which at least four people utterly fail to find love. Bette Davis's sharp-tongued waitress is several steps below Leslie Howard's crabby medical student on the social scale, and when he falls in love with her she suspects he's slumming and subjects him to a painful regimen of indifference. He presses his pursuit, but it turns out she's in love with an older and gruffer man who cares for her as little as she cares for our hero. To complete the never-ending chain of unrequited love, a timid but perfectly acceptable young romance magazine writer pines for Leslie Howard even as he pines for Bette Davis, and he rejects her as coldly as Davis rejects him. Bette Davis acts her heart out in this film, while Leslie Howard makes an impression mostly by staring into the camera with limpid wet eyes, a look of bitter sadness on his sensitive face (the noble passivity that so impressed Scarlett O'Hara when Howard played Ashley Wilkes in Gone With The Wind is displayed here as a sign of weakness, and the character is unlovable).

A happy ending is tacked onto this film, but this ending is so forgettable as to barely register. The pattern of infinitely recursive longing for those who don't love us (human bondage, indeed) is already firmly established, and the film's ending serves only as a salve for the aching pain of its bleak message. This bleak message is also hammered home by Maugham's novel, which covers a wider expanse of time (we meet Leslie Howard's character as a child, and follow him further into adulthood) but does not have a larger emotional scope; melancholy is the message, and there is no meaning to the novel, or the film, beyond the naked fact of the depraved sadness of life.

What happened to the melancholy novel? This format once thrived, and authors like Thomas Wolfe and Theodore Dreiser built careers upon the construction of depressive plots featuring miserable characters who do depraved things and then feel sad about it. In fact, this genre dominated American fiction through the 1950's, and both Jack Kerouac's On The Road (melancholy on wheels) and J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye (melancholy in Central Park) owe a lot to the tradition.

The melancholy novel is not completely dead today (not with Rick Moody around, anyway). But the days when major literary publications or expensive Hollywood films were regularly made to showcase the plaintive tones of life's misery are gone; cinematic depressiveness is strictly indie territory, and the prevailing mood in contemporary fiction is much more frenetic and satirical. If you want to bathe yourself in the warm waters of pure unhappiness, your best bet is to fire up Turner Classic Movies and spend an evening with Bette Davis and Leslie Howard. Writers, filmmakers: let's bring misery back to center stage where it belongs.





My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk

by Levi Asher on Tuesday, May 9, 2006 09:18 pm




My Name Is Red isn't Orhan Pamuk's most recent book, but it might be his best. This is a surprise because Snow was so good, but in fact the books make a great pair. One is as current as yesterday's newspaper and paints a frozen world of whites and grays, while the other takes place in 1591 and bursts with color and pure vision. Both books are classics, in my opinion, but My Name Is Red is the bigger book, and reaches for the grander statements.

Orhan Pamuk has a calm and modest demeanor, but this book is much a tour de force as anything Chuck Pahlaniuk's ever written, and it's nearly as manic. The book is mainly a murder mystery, set among a highly exclusive community of artists, soldiers and politicians in Istanbul at the height of that city's golden age (the Sultan himself even makes a cameo appearance in this book). The best painters in the Ottoman Empire work here as manuscript illuminators, or miniaturists. They are treated like celebrities, and their talents are viewed as mystical expression of Islamic ideals by their customers and fans. But the artists struggle to find their artistic boundaries, because their religion disdains representative illustration, which they all indulge in, as a form of vanity.

Much of the dialogue in the book revolves around this problem, and in this sense My Name Is Red is similar to other works that encapsulate religious debates, like T. S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral or Chaim Potok's The Chosen. Pamuk, however, is clearly more interested in art than in religion (he used to be a painter himself), as are most of the characters in the book. In fact several of them are literally crazed by the beauty -- and the forbidden vanity -- of visual art.

And one is more crazed than the others, because he starts killing people. That's the setup, and the murder plot gives the book plenty of forward momentum. But it's Pamuk's literary intelligence that raises this story to a much higher level than that of, say, a Turkish Da Vinci Code. Pamuk always writes with great control, and in this book he carries on a unique narrative conceit, allowing the story to unfold in a series of connected vignettes told in first person by each of the main characters in turn.

The first character to speak is the corpse of the murder victim. We then hear from a soldier, the woman he loves, a dog, each of the artists, a Jewish matchmaker, a horse, Satan, etc. As a writer, Pamuk probably got this idea from James Joyce and Ulysses (the vivid sex scene that closes the book, told in the voice of earth mother/mystical wife Shekure, recalls Ulysses as well). But, as an artist, Pamuk may also have borrowed this idea from Pablo Picasso, because his narrative has the same concise super-logical effect -- seeing the world from God's point of view -- as one of Picasso's Cubist paintings.

An overly clever narrative technique can doom a book where it doesn't belong, but this unique approach is a perfect match for this story, which is all about seeing. When the story finally reaches its crisis, I am pleased to report the surprise ending does deliver a strong punch (and it was better than any of the surprise endings I'd guessed). Here, the book begins to feel like The Alienist by Caleb Carr, as we approach the inner mental state of the killer and discover the secret object of art he has been hiding from the others, which he killed to protect.

I was also intrigued to discover a short chronology of Ottoman history at the book's end, which explains that one of the book's characters, the aging master artist Osman who yearns for blindness as the ultimate proof of sublime vision, is based on a real person. There is also a suggestion that another key character is based on a historical figure named Velijan, but Google turns up nothing about this name and I suspect Pamuk is just getting metafictional with us again.





Indie Reviews: April 2006

by Levi Asher on Tuesday, April 25, 2006 11:50 am


Slushpile recently presented a sporting rant that mocks annoying people who self-publish and then get way too excited about themselves. It's a good article, though it leads to the depressing conclusion that the future of literature remains in the hands of the large robotic corporations that occasionally bestow the magic word "published" upon a tiny selection of writers. Here at LitKicks, we've always supported the little guys in publishing, and we're happy to profile worthwhile new small press books, self-published books and poetry chapbooks. If you've got an independently published book you'd like us to review, we'll take a look. Here are a few we checked out last month:

The Garbageman and the Prostitute by Zack Wentz is a thrill ride down transgression alley, and if you go for this kind of thing (fragmented violent narratives with creepy psychological undertones) this book will probably please you. Wentz gets high marks for energy and consistency, because every sentence seems constructed for mind-numbing impact, and the excellent artwork (here's a sample, an animated version of the cover) neatly captures the mood. I did have trouble finding a clear plot in this book, though. I'm not sure if the plot is there or not, but I never found it. The Garbageman and the Prostitute is published by Chiasmus Press, and boasts a surprising array of endorsements from the likes of William Vollmann, Steve Aylett and Michael Hemmingson. The promo materials compare Zack Wentz to Richard Brautigan, Kathy Acker, Charles Bukowski, P. K. Dick and Thomas Pynchon. I see Acker and Pynchon here, but I don't see the simple, clear communication of Brautigan or Bukowski.

J Milligan's Jackfish has a great setup. A humanoid creature of some kind emerges from the ocean near Coney Island in Brooklyn, and gasps painfully to accustom himself to breathing air. Apparently this guy -- the Jackfish of the title -- is more comfortable extracting oxygen with his gills, which is mainly because he lives in the mystical underwater land of Atlantis. He's on some kind of noirish secret mission, and the whole thing reads kind of like City of Glass meets Aquaman, which is not a bad thing at all. In the end, it's not the suspense but rather the well-placed details (like the deep, jarring pain the fish-guy feels when forced to breathe air) that put this story over. Jackfish is published by Soho Press, a fairly large New York-based independent publisher that hasn't been swallowed up by a corporation yet, at least not as far as I know.

Not Having an Idea is a slim and expressive book of poems by Californian poet Donna Kuhn. Her work has a visual and visceral sense, marrying the random psychological splices of William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg to a distinctly feminine aesthetic:

particles of goat head fencing
cardinal of slouched fencing eyehole
smear a plot of murder i don't understand

fencing a platinum blong 4-plex
petty venders smoke up
i bend for your sandpapers
antlered sadness


Kuhn's book is a Lulu production, and so is Dutch-booked by Warren Weappa, a longtime friend of LitKicks. This is an ambitious and openly disorganized novel about a hapless sad-sack stuck in the ambiguities of his own mind, The best example I can give of this book's sensibility is Weappa's comically self-defeating comments to me as he sent it: "I don't want a review. I just want somebody in the world to read it." Well, Weappa is getting a review whether he wants it or not, because as I explained to him in my reply, I can't stand the responsibility of being the only person in the world to read anybody's book. The author's apparent agony about his book is very fitting, because the main character -- like the author, an expatriate in Asia -- suffers from the same endearing inability to seize the day. In the first two pages alone, he is referred to as "your antihero", "your valueless villian", "your working-class protaganist", "your serial loser" and "your clueless correspondent". John Kennedy Toole created a good book out of this type of self-deprecation (although, appropriately, he died before it was discovered). Reading Dutch-booked, I'm not sure whether to sympathize, laugh or yell at the author to shake it off.

Taking the Rest of the Week Off by Erik Linzbach is a humble, attractive chapbook that speaks clearly and simply, and I like it:

How you've changed
gone from the stereotype
divorce raged child
to the calm, secure
judgemental hawk,
flying high above all these
others, the rats from high school,
whom you'll eat one by one
by one, and you'll hate yourself
when they're all gone,
and no one can see your
new limitless brilliance,
no one can read your
gut check, relentless prose,
and you're once again found all alone.


Finally, it's not a book at all, but I've been meaning to point you all to Bear Parade, an online poetry exhibit designed by Gene Morgan and featuring enigmatic poet Tao Lin, the self-proclaimed Reader of Depressing Books who writes behind a mask of playful innocence and never breaks character. I like the clean presentation of this poetry exhibit, and I am looking forward to Lin's upcoming first hard copy publication, which he has promised to send me for future review.

That's it from the indie side of the street. I also have a few titles from more established publishers to review, and this will be up soon.





Voices, World and Otherwise

by Levi Asher on Wednesday, April 19, 2006 03:51 pm


1. The PEN World Voices Festival begins a week from today, and I'll be covering the various events with a gang of bloggers including Bud Parr of Chekhov's Mistress, James Marcus of House of Mirth, Michelle Lin of NY Brain Terrain, and Michael Orthofer of the Literary Saloon. I couldn't approve more of the basic concept behind this international-minded festival. Whether or not I will approve of any of the actual events that I attend remains to be seen, but I feel optimistic.

2. Bud Parr (who runs Metaxu Cafe along with Chekhov's Mistress) is the mastermind behind the PEN World Voices blogging posse mentioned above. He also wrote a great piece about the new Bukowski movie, Born Into This.

3. I was sorry to read (via Bookslut) that novelist Charles Webb has fallen on hard times. Webb hit it big in the 1960's as the author of The Graduate, and even though the novel is eclipsed by the nearly perfect movie with its nearly perfect Simon and Garfunkel soundtrack, the book offers its own rewards. The stubborn and inarticulate lead character provides the template for Dustin Hoffman's entire persona as an actor, for one thing (The Graduate was Hoffman's first major movie, and as far as I can tell he's been playing Webb's Benjamin Braddock ever since).

Charles Webb once had a thriving career in literary fiction, and when I was a kid my local library stocked all his books. I especially remember two of them: Love, Roger, a sweet fable about a shy guy who can't come to terms with his own sexuality, and Orphans and Other Children, a book of short stories that includes a memorably ambivalent tableau set in a nudist colony. Another Webb novel, Marriage of a Young Stockbroker, was made into an unremarkable movie starring Richard Benjamin. All of these books are now out of print. Charles Webb was more than a one-hit wonder, and I hope his fortunes improve.

4. There's a nice interview with Anne Tyler in the latest Fail Better.

5. Nasdijj isn't going to go down quietly like Charles Webb. He hasn't put up a new website since his ordeal earlier this year, but I'm still on his email list, and I'm glad to see he's doing the only thing you really can do after Time Magazine calls you a liar --come clean and move on. Here's the latest missive from the writer currently sometimes known as Tim Barrus, who still writes with the humor valve shut off but the intensity turned up to twelve (because eleven's not enough):

Being Nasdijj was like being alone and shining in an empty room where some animal is killing itself slowly in a screaming struggle of dark set against the darkness of a hatred made visible as it crushed upon itself.

As for Tim, he returns to the world of sex work where his writing came from anyway. A landscape where the romance of bondage is not confined to the political correctness or mythologized literary persona of the reservation.

The lights came on and I walked out onto the stage. I plunged a knife into his chest again and again. Nasdijj gasped and died. But Tim is left to be guillotined like Charlotte Corday who once demanded with her note to Jean-Paul Marat that her protest be acknowledged in her objection to the blood that ran like a river through her dreams.





The Jeeves Codex

by Levi Asher on Wednesday, April 5, 2006 08:08 pm


There's a new name on my writers-I-like-a-lot list, though this name took a circular route to get here. I was introduced to the novelist Jonathan Ames a few years ago by my friend Christian Crumlish who'd apparently been his college buddy at Princeton. We'd dropped by a Jonathan Ames reading at a small Greenwich Village theater, but you couldn't call the performance a reading so much as, well, an astonishing spontaneous thirty-minute filibuster of disgusting personal facts and scatological observations regarding Ames's body and his highly varied sexual desires. It was all quite humorous, and the crowd seemed to like him a lot. But scatology is not my bag and I honestly didn't know what to think about my friend's friend.

But something compelled me to pick up his latest novel, Wake Up, Sir! and I am now a believer in the worthiness of Jonathan Ames. In fact I'm still glowing from this artful book, which radiates a complex warmth beneath its comic surface.

The book is an explicit homage to a favorite writer of mine, P. G. Wodehouse, in that it features a hedonistic narrator with a calm valet named Jeeves. Ames's hero Alan Blair is a modern slacker with a manic personality and a slippery grip on reality, and he speaks in the same bemused cadences as Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster.

But there are also echoes of Charles Bukowski and Fyodor Dostoevsky in the utter self-deprecation that permeates this narrator's every thought. Ames writes by letting his character spill out everything about himself, whether he wants us to know it or not. It's a cathartic, ecstatic kind of self-revelation, and in this context I have a better understanding of the performance I saw in Greenwich Village a few years ago. This book is tamer and has a surprisingly polite tone, but the veneer breaks often, as in the ridiculously detailed long scene in which the narrator discovers he has an STD and goes into a frenzy of suicidal yearnings and obsessive self-shaving and cleansing that lasts 14 pages. Somehow, believe it or not, the 14 pages are fun to read. It's all so remarkably childish as to be endearing; reading this book is like watching a child throw a hilarious fit.

Some reviewers of the book have hinted that Jeeves is imaginary, while other reviewers treat the character as fully real. I take a strong stand on this matter, because I believe the proper way to interpret this book is as a series of strong hints and clues -- a Dan-Brown-like codex, even -- which proves that, beyond any doubt, Jeeves is not real, and is in fact the central psychological metaphor of the book. Here's why I'm sure.

First, nobody but the narrator ever interacts with Jeeves. When they go to a writing colony, we are told that Jeeves will dine with the kitchen staff, but no further mention is made of this and there is a chilling sense that Jeeves will not be dining anywhere. Likewise, when they are driving, Jeeves does not appear to ever take the wheel.

The second clue is the more subtle one, and is designed to be noticed only by hard-core Wodehouse fans like myself. There is a curious subplot involving some stolen slippers which the hero is accused of having absconded with, and when he then finds himself in a very uncomfortable situation at the end of the book, the stolen slippers return in such a way as to miraculously save the situation. This is a classic Wodehouse ending, and the hero even thinks to himself that Jeeves must have devised the solution. But that's the twist -- it turns out somebody else did it. This blunt reversal is the clearest signal that Jeeves can only reach the edge of reality in this novel, and is in fact, like Harvey the rabbit, like Donnie Darko, like the creepy twin kid in Thomas Tryon's The Other, like Leland Palmer's Bob, like Tony Soprano's Kevin Finnerty, like Hamlet's Ghost, an utter figment.

Despite this Matrix-like undercurrent of meta-meaning, the book's plot generally glides sweetly upon the author's felicitous prose. Two highlight scenes: the surreal moment when the narrator resumes his psychotic alcohol abuse at a party with several equally unbalanced writers, and the hilarious scene when he first arrives at a rural writer's colony (based on the real Yaddo) and becomes convinced that he has been deceived into staying at a mental hospital, based on the grotesque facial appearance of several nearby poets.

Ames hints on his own website that Wake Up, Sir! may be made into a movie. If this happens, I hope Ames will play himself and Stephen Fry will play Jeeves (he got it right in a recent television production, although co-star Hugh Laurie was absolutely absymal -- I'm talking Tom Hanks bad -- as Bertie Wooster, and made the series unwatchable). Perhaps this film will be the great Wodehouse movie that has never been made (in fact, Arthur starring Dudley Moore and John Gielgud was not too completely far from this mark; Wodehouse seems to inspire great homages).

I hope the Ames film happens. I think I'm going to pick up his new book of essays next. I'm not sure what to expect.





Jay McInerney's Good Life: The Odeon In Dust

by Levi Asher on Tuesday, March 28, 2006 10:35 pm




I'm not sure why I like reading Jay McInerney. He's a moderately popular novelist with a shallow intellectual range and a level-headed narrative tone, and yet I felt inexplicably excited to read his new The Good Life, which is about two married Manhattan couples before and after September 11, 2001. As I waded through the first chapters I wasn't sure why I was reading it at all.

Most novels are about people with big problems, but a typical Jay McInerney character has far less problems than, say, me. The Good Life is about four New Yorkers with fabulous careers, trendy hobbies and great real estate. One couple has a treasured Tribeca loft and expects Salman Rushdie for dinner (he's a no-show), and that's the less wealthy pair. The display of vapid values, famous names and expensive logos in the first few chapters is almost over the top, and I nearly tossed the book aside in a pique of Marxist disgust at that point. But I decided to stick around, to see where Jay was going with all this.

In fact, McInerney knows how to engineer a story, and it was clear that these early displays of jaded prosperity were a setup for the obvious pivot. It's September 10 2001, and a character steps out of a cab:

"... pausing to look up at the huge monoliths looming above her ..."

Tribeca is only blocks away from the World Trade Center, and this neighborhood has been McInerney's literary backyard since the young magazine yuppies of Bright Lights Big City snorted coke in the bathroom at Odeon. Now his characters are older and attending more sophisticated parties, and we leave one of them off at the dregs of an awful society ball on the evening of September 10. Then it's September 12, and the same man wakes up outside, injured and caked in dust, desperately trying to dig a dead friend out of a mountain of burning rubble.

This is Luke, once an investment banker. He begins volunteering at a ground zero food relief station, along with Corinne, a modern downtown mother living inside a poundingly dull marital tableau. Luke and Corinne need each other, they fall together, and in the last few pages they blast back apart.

The ending is powerful, and justifies many flaws in the lazier pages that precede it. Overall, I enjoyed reading the book, but I am far from sure if it has what a book needs to be read by future generations or not. The writing is sometimes witty but never brilliant, and as always Jay McInerney's literary influences seem to range all the way from Hemingway to Fitzgerald. A Good Life feels much of the time like a good article in a toney magazine. That's what I didn't like.

What I did like is the quiet conviction and honesty of the story, and the humanity McInerney invests in his characters. It's hard to believe McInerney every wrote a book about yuppie coke fiends, because these characters are all paragons of responsibility and maturity (or three of the four main characters are, anyway, and the fourth, Luke's rich bimbo wife, shows up mostly as a comic foil for the other three).

I also liked the truths revealed at the sad but uncertain ending. I was expecting a happier resolution, but I'd forgotten that McInerney's favorite book is The Great Gatsby. Two boats against the current; two buildings down. A Good Life doesn't fully justify itself until the ending of the love affair, which reveals itself as both surprising and inevitable.

Some other opinions on this book can be found here, here and here.





Two-Tier Book Pricing Has Got To Go

by Levi Asher on Thursday, March 23, 2006 09:16 pm



Some recent news about a move towards affordable first editions hit a nerve with me. This is a positive development, but it's at least twenty years too late, and it doesn't go far enough.

The publishing industry's basic hardcover/paperback pricing structure is a dinosaur, and it's time for this dinosaur to die. Here are a few reasons why two-tier book pricing has got to go:

It's exclusionary. It's amazing that book publishers consider themselves socially enlightened, because their basic pricing structure forces non-wealthy readers to wait a year to read new books. Is somebody going to explain to me why this doesn't amount to a gated community for literature?

Take me, for example. I'm a middle-class guy working to support myself and my kids, and because of this I'm not going to be able to read Rick Moody's Diviners for another six months. I cribbed an article about Consider the Lobster by David Foster Wallace while getting tripped over in a Barnes and Noble's fiction aisle. On Beauty by Zadie Smith is supposed to be a good book. I'll let you know in 2007.

I don't ever like to throw around cliched words like "elitist". But two-tier book pricing is a seven letter word that starts with 'e'.

It's aesthetically wrong. Sure, I'd be interested in reading Eat The Document by Dana Spiotta. But why the hell do I want a premium edition of a first novel that I know very little about? I'm certainly not going to buy this book in hardcover, and by the time it comes out in paperback I'll have probably forgotten about it.

There are a few books I like enough that I've chosen to buy them in hardcover, like the Complete Works of Plato, The Riverside Shakespeare, Wittgenstein's Philosophical Investigations and a facsimile edition of On The Road. But for God's sake, a book's got to earn that kind of status. What the hell am I going to do with a premium edition of Intuition by Allegra Goodman or Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safrar Foer or Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld? Are you even kidding me? These books may or may not turn out to be worth their weight, let alone the space they take up and the money they cost. I'd like to be able to experiment with new authors, but I'm not going to experiment at $25 a try.

It's economically questionable. The New York Times article quoted in the links above states that two-tier book pricing is here to stay because it makes business sense. I'm not buying that, any more than I'm buying a $40 book of poetry by W. S. Merwin. Every industry re-invents its pricing structure periodically. If the book industry can't find a way to better serve its customers while building profits, they may not be trying very hard. Here are two ideas: publish premium and affordable editions at the same time, or publish premium editions a year after the affordable editions. This is a question of packaging, and I think our brilliant publishing executives and author representatives can rise to the challenge.

It's inconvenient. Goddammit, I don't have time to go to libraries and fight with blue-haired little old ladies over the latest Kurt Vonnegut. I am very interested in current writing, and if there's a new book out I want to be able to buy it. I'm not looking for a keepsake or a family heirloom. Let me buy the book. Put the book in the stores and let me buy it. I don't want to wait a year, because in a year I might not care about that book anymore. Let me buy the book. Now. Because I'm getting more and more pissed off the more I think about this.

I applaud editor Morgan Entrekin, the subject of the articles linked above, and many others in the publishing industry who are championing the cause of paperback originals and affordable first editions. I'm pretty sure two-tier pricing has no future, but then I was saying that twenty years ago, and Morgan Entrekin was too.





Rites of Spring

by Levi Asher on Monday, March 20, 2006 06:52 pm


1. To be a good litblogger, you can't just sit back and think up good jokes about whatever is happening around you. You have to get out and make stuff happen, and that's one reason why Ed Champion is probably the best litblogger on the planet right now. I'm inspired to declare this after reading his two (yes, two) recent mash-ups with the esteemed and intellectually intimidating William T. Vollman, who many avid readers wouldn't even approach once. I especially like this part in the afterstory: "I said, 'Gentlemen, that was a classic ditch technique'".

2. Then there's Jeff Bryant of Syntax of Things, who must be hooked into some secret private Google or something, because he always seems to get the alert before I do. He knew about DeLillo's Game Six a month before anyone else, and he got the scoop on the new Bukowski movie about six months ago before anybody else (actually, where the hell is this movie?). Of interest today: the London house where Symbolist poets Verlaine and Rimbaud gamboled and frolicked happily together when they weren't busy shooting each other is in jeopardy. Bob Dylan and Patti Smith are joining the effort to preserve this landmark, and we are glad to hear this. But somebody should have rung up Richard Hell.

3. The multi-day 2006 People's Poetry Gathering looks like it will be an amazing event. The broad lineup includes Robert Bly (whose poetry comes alive in performance), Miguel Algarin, Kewulay Kamara, Bob Holman, Galway Kinnell, Black 47 and many others.

4. A minor miracle recently occured on cable television. The BookTV network ran a show that featured a literary author whose latest book was not a biography of a dead President and did not involve a dead President in any way. I know what you're thinking: that's crazy -- but it actually happened. Norman Mailer was the author, and he appeared in a videotaped interview with his son, the wonderfully named John Buffalo Mailer, who seems to be stirring to follow in the old man's footsteps.

5. This is the best ode to spring I'm likely to read this year. Reclaim life! Eat jelly beans ...





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