But. In the case of William Vollmann, it’s oddly high praise. Which is to say: I’ve been reading The Dying Grass, and while I generally do enjoy the challenge of a Vollmann book, I’ll be one of the first to admit that there’s often long passages where I just kind of shrug and plow through and wait to pick up the thread again, but, with this book, that isn’t happening all that often. There’s still a good deal of go-with-the-flow here but I find the flow itself to be pretty much front and center and refreshingly followable, without ever feeling either like he’s dumbing the work down or the story down; he’s still stubbornly himself at every turn, but the version of his writing he’s putting forward here is the kind that makes it a lot easier to want to suggest that maybe people who wouldn’t typically read Vollmann might want to give this one a shot. Don’t let the indentation cause concern; for me it feels almost like a poetic or dramatic device rather than one with any real strict literal meaning to it, one that often enough simply blends into the flow of the book but every now and then gives rise to a really startlingly crisp moment of insight and affect. I don’t know that I would literally call this book poetry but I would say that it puts me in mind of Mark Z. Danielewski’s Only Revolutions, except you know even for not being poetry Vollmann’s book offers far superior poetry on just about every single page.
I mean, I don’t know. There’s some I could take off. There’s some I could put on? There’s also no real order to the list. It’s a bit of blog throat clearing.
- The Paying Guests, Sarah Waters.
- Wonderland, Stacey D’Erasmo.
- Binary Star, Sarah Gerard.
- The Buried Giant, Kazuo Ishiguro.
- Broken Monsters, Lauren Beukes.
- The Unspeakable: And Other Subjects of Discussion, Meghan Daum.
- Neverhome, Laird Hunt.
- I Remember You: A Ghost Story, Yrsa Sigurðardóttir.
- Night Film, Marisha Pessl.
- The Laughing Monsters, Denis Johnson.
Though, I mean, for all that, like, holy hell, that Wonderland book, I mean…damn. And also obviously and always and forever Kazuo Ishiguro, but you knew that already, assuming you’ve been reading my blog since 1987, or whenever blogging was invented. Ahem.
At the risk of speaking snobbishly of black-and-white straw men and paper-thin stereotypes, I think there’s two general outcomes for those of us who grew up on science fiction. We either become nerds, or we become English majors. By which I mean, we either stay in love with it and stick with it for the rest of our lives, or we “graduate” to Shakespeare and Dostoevsky and speak only furtively, in our cups, of our misspent, naive youths.
I know, I know. Tongue-in-cheek, foot-in-mouth, it’s not so simple. The straw man is easily shoved out an airlock and the English major has no clothes. Bear with me; I promise, gray is my favorite color.*
The second case has long been the extreme to which I’ve felt myself flung toward, accidentally or intentionally. Not all the way, of course, but enough to feel a certain kinship with that hypothetical fellow, but I’ve never once doubted the validity and power and utility and excellence and entertainment of genre fiction, and in my cups, I’d knife you in a bar fight on its behalf, but, that said, whatever happened between my slacker freshman year of high school when I forgot that I liked learning things and doing well on tests and my Brothers Karamazov-loving overachiever senior year of high school when I stayed up late the night before the final just to finish reading the last 300 pages or so has had certain after-effects that have ripped across my life to date, such as a tendency away from the genre fiction I grew up on and loved from an early age and toward books about people doing people-stuff or whatever.
Call it accidental snobbery.
Being a jerk.
It’s not to say I haven’t read genre since; it’s just that maybe I’ve leaned toward the genre’s literary cross-over heavy-hitters? The China Miévilles, the Jonathan Lethems. The ones where, you know, it’s cool, because, like, they’re not pulp, like, they’re actually literary, man.
Really, I do apologize. For all I’ve said, for all I’ll ever say.
The problem is, whatever your cognitive dissonance and his output levels might tell you, humankind can not live on William Vollmann alone, and as much as I’m essentially and critically entertained through much of the super heavy ironic scare quotes lit-er-ahhh-tschyeeoor I regularly reach for, as much of that reading material should be appreciated for its entertainment value and not just for the ways it quote unquote speaks volumes to our minds about the essentials of the human condition, there do come these points where, gods be damned, I just want a story that takes me out of my own head for a couple hours, and then maybe a couple more hours after that; in the eternal struggle between truth and beauty, I want space ships that blow each other up and dragons that breathe fire, a bit of the old ultraviolence. I want technicolor strobe-light laser beams dancing across my eyeballs and closing credit sequences with heavy 90’s alt-rock screaming out of the speakers as I walk out of the cold vaccuum of deep space dazzled out into the 90 degree sunlight with popcorn grease staining my t-shirt and too much damn Diet Coke in my gut, ready to go back to whatever comes next.
I haven’t been to the movies in way too long, but that’s a story for another post.
The problem, I guess, is that I’m also a grown-ass man who can’t stand bad writing worth a damn anymore. I may have a more flexible definition of “bad” than some others do, of course, but still, the beauty of language will always be a deal maker or breaker for me, I guess.
First world problems.
Point being, as much as I might feel the longing to get wrapped up in a giant comfortable space opera blanket, if the fabric itches and scratches, I’m going to claw my way out before I have a chance to get warm. I won’t name names, but I’ve left a few books like this behind, that just didn’t do it for me. In some ways I’ve wondered if it wasn’t them, if it was really just me, if I was remembering wrongly what it was I liked about sci-fi when I was younger and read it all the time, if, maybe, there really are some homes you can’t go back to again, even when they haven’t changed a damn bit.
Then I picked up Leviathan Wakes by James S. A. Corey.
Two second cut of that Maxwell cassette advertisement.
It’s the kind of surprising alignment of right book, right time, that happens now and then, though maybe not often enough; when, you know, your brain needs something and your heart needs something and then there’s a book in your hands, and it’s saying, “Yes, yes. I know. Look. I just blew up a space ship for you,” and it’s just somehow perfect. Midway through the book I’d forgotten the other two books I’d taken out from the library at the same time and I was back at the library picking up books two and three in the Corey series because I wasn’t going to screw around and not have the next books in the series immediately at hand when I’d finished the first one, I mean, come on, don’t be ridiculous.
What I admire with my head about these books is the way they balance character and plot development through crisp, tight, propulsive language. I’ve started and stopped books in which the writing felt insulting, somehow, but I didn’t get that, here; I mean, no, we’re not talking William Gass, you’re not going to pick up a paragraph and chew the meaning out of its syllables, it’s function over form, but there’s enough attention to form to make the experience of processing this language smooth and enjoyable. And every now and then they drop a phrase or two that strike the match under a little old fashioned awe and wonder. It’s just enough for what I want these books to do.
What I love with my heart about these books, specifically the first book, is the fact that they refuse to screw around. The first book, there’s a blurb on there about it being the novel equivalent of a Hollywood blockbuster, and, yes, oh gods, yes. I think that the writers’ directive to themselves (the name being a pseudonym for Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck, who teamed up to create this series) in the first book was to ensure that if it seemed like nothing much had happened in the last ten pages, to blow up a ship, start a firefight, or unleash some fresh, mysterious horror that drives a sense of the universe they’re building around the story’s events. Books two and three, Caliban’s War and Abaddon’s Gate, both settle into a steadier groove, more ready for the marathon than the sprint, in which the scope and mythology expand, the mysteries of the universe grow more detailed and intriguing, all of which remains in service of a story about, of course, humanity, and the fact that we’re, you know, kind of a big old bag of screw-up. And throughout they still write excellent, chaotic sequences, keeping the entertainment value high and the page-turning qualities intact throughout.
I just finished the third book today and have decided to move on to other things, fresh wind in my sails, for at least a spell, before I move on to the fourth novel, or any of the assorted novellas that flesh out the series. What’s exciting about the writers’ process is that they are churning this series out quickly and, it would seam, with little loss of quality, even as the focus of the series shifts its attention from book to book. Last I checked the fifth book is due out next year and they’re under contract for another handful of books after that. If they keep the pace up this series could be my go-to summer-event series for a while to come. And even if not, these first three books form a wonderful sort of trilogy, and that first book just absolutely rocked.
* – Well, okay, it’s actually, like, a greenish-blue color, but, whatever.
I’ve been working on a new visual project of my own for a while now, and I’m getting ready to launch it. It’s called Or Eve. As of right now it doesn’t involve any known human words or languages. But I’ve been spilling a few human words or two about the project (along with some process screenshots) here and there for a while now, which you can find over here.
I’m not the best at reading non-fiction. It’s not that I have anything against facts; rumor has it facts are great. I’m just a novel reader by habit and novels are what I pour into my limited reading time.
Still, once in a while, after a while, fiction can start to feel too airy, too groundless, and it’s nice to go read something that deals with actual people doing real things. Still then it’s a strange choice for my latest foray into non-fiction to pick up To the Finland Station, a seventy-five year old history of revolutionary thought and activity between the French and Russian revolutions. Written by an American, none the less. But it’s a book I picked up at a Borders going-out-of-business sale (R.I.P.) in a buy-on-sight worthy New York Review Books edition a while back and with last year’s partial forced reduction of the TBR pile it started rising to the top of the stacks.
I’ve been dipping in and out of it much of this year. It was slow going at first, what with it being a dark winter and the fact that reading much of anything felt like a desperate chore, but over the last month the rhythm and flow of it have really caught me and I’m actually right now letting it distract me for another couple chapters from A True Novel.
I remain a total style addict even in nonfiction I guess and the book rewards reading with an appreciation for the art of story telling. Less a strict history of facts it’s more a series of character studies of influential thinkers in the realm of revolutionary histories and thought, leading up to the current extended focus on Marx and Engels, who are rather popping off the page with energy, coming off as cranky, moody geniuses situated against those who came before them.
Wilson isn’t afraid to give voice and color to these historical figures, to quietly reveal his own potential fascinations and sympathies and raised eyebrows throughout. Of course, it was 1940, and as he admits in an introduction added in 1971, he wasn’t exactly predicting the future when it comes to the Soviet Union. Which adds a certain additional layer of historical/modern awareness for readers today, reading this history of history as, itself, history.
I’m a bit under half-way through and as it’s the midway point of the year I’ll feel pretty content if, chapter by chapter, I finish the book sometime before the end of the year. Though that said I might have to speed up the timeline a bit to start working in at least a little more non-fiction into my reading diet.
Even by my limited to non-existent standards, this is not exactly a timely post.
To explain: once upon a time I pitched a review of Stephen Dixon’s latest novel, His Wife Leaves Him, to a certain online publication for which I have a lot of respect, to which I hoped to contribute, because, fighting the good fight, and all that. Time never worked out in the review’s favor: there was a significant delay between when I pitched the review and when review copies of the book were made available. And then there was the time spent reading the book and writing up the initial draft of the review. And then there was the time spent waiting for feedback to come in from the review’s editor; the feedback was excellent and the editor neatly called me out on what I was doing with the review and how it could stand to be improved. I can’t thank the editor enough for that feedback; but, unfortunately, between the time I submitted the original review and the time the feedback reached my inbox, I’d picked up another project that was basically the exact opposite of a writing project, a project that was sucking up every ounce of free time and energy for an exciting cause. Responding to the review feedback would have required a significant investment of time and energy because I would have needed to have dived back into the book and into the review itself to do justice to the feedback I was given. Priorities collided. I dropped the review. Next thing I knew it was Christmas. Next thing I new it was 2014. Next thing I knew it was June 2014 and I thought about the review and the fact that it was June 2014 and I started hyperventilating in my brain. Out of curiosity this last week I reached out to the review editor to apologize for dropping the ball and to confirm my suspicion that we were past all the sell-by dates on this thing. In the time that had passed she had moved on from the publication, and, well, that’s that.
Looking back, it probably makes sense that this was, I shouldn’t say a bad choice for a subject to pitch for that publication, but maybe more of a slightly misguided choice, a case of optimistic hopes getting the better of rational decision making. Something. The challenge with the piece that I turned in was that it tried to be a little bit too Internet-clever; and while there was and is enthusiasm in spades for the book and the author, there may have lacked a certain critical depth or nuance of insight into the subject to make it really shine as a review that would motivate readerships and discussions like I’d originally ideally hoped to provoke. I love the book and I love the author and I want you to love the book and the author as well and I’m not sure I found the right voice or the right insights to properly communicate that fact and that passion and the importance of the novel. For all my words, there just wasn’t enough there, really.
In short, I’d written a pretty good blog post, not a really great book review. Which, frankly, I think, be it 2005 or 2014, is perfectly fine, even a little noble.* Because passion and substance are hardly mutually exclusive, and, it might be said, might even depend on each other, a little bit, and by stumbling our way through one we can find our way to the other, and failed attempts and false starts are still superior to empty coughs and blank pages.
So with that in mind I’m sharing a lightly cleaned up version of the original review as I submitted it. I took some of the feedback and rejected other bits of the feedback, depending on how the breeze was passing through my office in that second; you’d be forgiven for not taking this as seriously as I once would have liked you to have. Selfishly, I’d like to close the book on a piece of writing I was beyond thrilled to attempt, regardless of how close to its final form I ever got it; I need to kick this weight off my mind’s back. I don’t write enough these days to completely write it off. And, let’s face it, this probably isn’t the last I’ll write about Stephen Dixon’s work, and it’s certainly not the last I’ll read of his work, but I need to find a better headspace in which to do it if what’s in my head is really going to sync up with what’s in my heart and my gut.
Optimistically, though, as well, there is the hope that the passion I hope you’ll find below might transfer, that the love I have and had for the book can still mean something, itself, even this far out of date and out of context. And, who knows, what’s next.
* – I can somewhat proudly say I’ve written both at this point in what passes for my (unpaid, limited, impassioned) writing career; in both cases I’ve probably benefited more, personally, from the act of writing than the publication of the end results of those efforts. As for you, the reader: I literally don’t know. I’d like to think I’ve made someone somewhere buy a book they went on to like or feel challenged by, I’d like to think I’ve provoked a laugh or two or a thought or three along the way, but it’s honestly a little hard to tell, especially when there isn’t a comment section attached to the piece in question. Or when it’s suddenly 2014 and what comments sections there are are either the domains of, at best, tumbleweeds, at worst, scum and villainy. Never mind that, being 2014, the odds of anything getting read anywhere are pretty much completely dismal. Which sounds misanthropic, hand-wringing, self-pitying. Sure. But ask me again tomorrow. And/or again tomorrow’s tomorrow. I may answer the same way. Or.
His Wife Leaves Him
Life is too short to repeat yourself: for what I feel is my decent, personal take on who Stephen Dixon is and what he does, go here to read my review of his 2010 story collection, What Is All This? (If you haven’t read Dixon yet, either, you might start with that book, too; though, spoiler alert, I think the subject of the review below is excellent, one of the author’s best, This? offers a better in-the-round portrait of Dixon’s extensive writing career.) Pretend there’s a big roman numeral I. at the top of that review and then when you’re done (or when you’ve come up from This? for air) come back here to pick up with part
two, in which I discuss His Wife Leaves Him, Dixon’s latest novel, a meditation in portrait form on life and death, love, anger, and contemplation, a book I might consider his masterwork if my heart weren’t already with his earlier Interstate. Of course, it’s true, that you’ll always remember your first, but also for me, in this case, with these two books, there’s a two-sides-of-one-story thing happening, Interstate being the yin to the yang of Wife, in which, in Wife, the nightmare in question is made real, inescapable and sad.
(Except, not. Of course.)
Wife is the story of Martin Samuels and his wife Gwendolyn, who passes away following a pair of strokes and lengthy periods of harrowing at-home recovery. Through an extended, musical opening paragraph—the literary equivalent of climbing an entire range of mountains in one shot—Martin cares for and rages against Gwendolyn and their circumstances, holds himself together through the funeral and the later memorial alongside their two grown daughters, while beginning to remember their life together. Following that opening paragraph (39 pages) is a second paragraph (47 pages) that maps, through a rapid succession of dreams, the emotional terrain of a man in grief. Where dreams, in novels, can sometimes feel like cheap cheats, Dixon uses them to set an elegiac tone for whole swaths of Martin’s life, a subtle counter-melody to the remainder of the specific recollections that follow, as the novel travels from memory to memory, Martin’s regrets and compulsions pursuing him throughout the story, before he finally leaves his bedroom, to face what comes next. It’s complexly emotional reading, happy and sad, oddly funny and generally apolitical and entirely sincere, with little to no irony separating the specificness of the book from the specificness of our own stories and lives: at some point, we all have to make ourselves that final, first cup of coffee.
Dixon’s language is chewy, tasty in a way I’d like to think William Gass would appreciate. (Though, Dixon’s is more big-scoop-of-vanilla, Gass’s more the-entire-sundae-toppings-bar-at-once.) That language and Dixon’s way with moments are what keep me coming back to his work, time after time. There’s a free rhythm to his dialogue and description that makes his work feel more like a steady series of inhalations and exhalations than a breathless run through thin air. He has a way with turning scenes on a dime, precisely shaking a sequence’s cadence to maximize effect and maintain interest, as with the explosion of anger that follows the unfortunate piss-related incident that precedes Gwen’s death:
Without looking at her, he says “I need a minute to myself, but don’t worry, I’ll eventually take care of you,” and goes into the kitchen and drinks a glass of water and feels like throwing the glass into the sink but puts it down and bangs the top of the washing machine with his fist and yells “God-all-fucking-mighty, what am I going to do with you? I wish you’d die, already, die, already, and leave me in fucking peace.” Then he thinks “Oh, no. I hope she didn’t hear me; it’s the worst thing I’ve ever said.”
He follows the winding trains of thought that connect passages:
Ah, why’s he speculating on something that didn’t happen? Because it’s interesting, going through all the possibilities that could have happened and then zeroing in on what actually did. And what the hell else he’s got to do now? And he likes the idea of, well…of, that he was going to meet and get to know her no matter what.
And he finds poignance and meaning in his flowing streams of dialogue:
“…And she has a wonderful disposition, which is not looks, but helps. Soft, calm, as is her voice.” “How old is she?” and he told him and Manny said “Lots of years between you two, but that’s all right. She’ll take care of you in your old age.”
That said, the subject matter is often grim. His Wife Leaves Him is preoccupied with the emotional and physical truths of caring for the sick, of dealing with one’s own advancing age. The frequent references to piss and shit reflect the recurring difficulties of difficult love, of dealing with failings, both your own and of others. It’s an uncomfortable and compelling contrast to the simpler, more joyous aspects of meeting someone and spending a life with them, of losing them and having to figure out what to do next.
I think Dixon’s heart lies with the short story more than the novel; or, rather, with the idea of story, period, length be damned. In ramping up to this review, and in my steady progress toward reading everything of his I can get my hands on, I read both 30, his 1999 “novel,” and Story of a Story and Other Stories: A Novel. They both evince Dixon’s seemingly semi-intentional interest in mucking about with form. They were both enjoyable yet frustrating reads, with little narrative momentum to propel the reader from chapter to chapter or page to page. The stakes, as they are, can feel a bit low. It’s a common thread to Dixon’s novels, or, again, “novels.” They can at times feel like bundles of stories that just happen to have fallen between the same cover pages, or like stories that grew past the sizes any magazine or anthology could neatly contain. Historically, Dixon has either chosen to concern himself with this issue or to seem to ignore it completely; for example, I. and End of I. seem to choose not to, while Frog addresses it through masterful sequencing, Interstate offers its own fantastic solution. The story of Wife provides a pure sort of synthesis of these goals and interests, with its simply connected flow of memories and moments offering perhaps one ideal form of what a Dixon novel might look like, were he to choose one solution and stick with it. That said, I’m glad he hasn’t, and that he probably won’t. The restless variations he finds within what are undeniably his paragraphs and sentences serve to further make any book or story of his a new opportunity for the reader, for me, to see the form from a fresh vantage point.
His Wife Leaves Him most recalls Interstate in its ending. In the closing chapter of Interstate, Dixon pulls immense tension from the reversal of the seven-times-repeated nightmare that preceded it. In Interstate, everything is horrible, until it actually isn’t. That “happy” ending is as emotionally fraught as the rest of the novel. With Wife, the worst really does come to pass, the death of a loved one; nothing, no memory or dream, can reverse that. The final, understated pages demand sober contemplation.
And, here, I break in, some eight to ten months after I originally handed in this review, and I’ll forgive you if you choose to break away at this point; we’ll meet again. I’ll say that the rest of the review dealt with the idea of endings; the one point I’ll hold on to here (“As I said, I think asserting the idea that Dixon could have a single masterwork would be to do him a disservice,”) is, I think, a good point, but, maybe, it’s where the review broke down a bit for me, and where I couldn’t really find the words to make critical stuff of the emotional and intellectual experience of reading and processing so much of a single writer’s back catalogue. Like I said, this isn’t political writing, and while it’s deeply substantial, it’s the stuff of internal importance; Dixon isn’t here to hold a mirror to society and effect change or anything like that, he’s here to make us feel a thing or two, to participate in story, and, dammit, that’s enough. But what do I say about that? I don’t know. It’s what gives me years-erasing writer’s block, that realization that given a really great piece of work, I literally sometimes have no idea how to verbally respond to it without coming off like an attention-seeking dork. And so then. I didn’t really know how to end this review. Now, months and months later, free from what once passed for obligation, I can say that I don’t have to end this review. I think it’s enough to say that Dixon nails his endings but that endings are only ever beginnings. Or some crap like that. I’m lazy. I frustrate myself. I don’t know. We carry on. We meet again.
Please read this book.
I just this morning started reading A True Novel by Minae Mizumura and I’m already finding it hard to put down. I’ve been intrigued by this one for a while and the stars finally aligned* and I grabbed a copy. One of those books I wasn’t about to take out from the library; the beautiful slip-case edition needed to find a home on my shelves.**
The book is pitched as a 20th century reimagining of Wuthering Heights set in post-war Japan. To be honest I read Wuthering Heights probably in high school and I remember hating it, and today I probably couldn’t actually tell you anything real about it, but I’ve been assured enjoyment or even knowledge of Heights is not a prerequisite for the Mizumura book.
So far, I’m still in the lengthy prologue,*** but it feels like remarkably smooth reading, like, for being 800-plus pages, it’s going to feel like a much quicker, shorter, denser book? Even without getting into the frames and layers that I believe creep up as the book progresses, it’s already rich with detail and a complexity of characterization, focusing so far to some degree on the experience of being Japanese in America in the middle of the century–of feeling like a stranger in a strange land, period–and of seeing class and economic shifts as they’re happening from an intriguing perspective. And also gender relations and also the importance of story and story telling and escaping into a story. And. I kind of just want to escape into this story for a while.
* – Last year, and this is something I would have blogged a lot about last year, if I had been blogging last year, I took a year off from reading any book that wasn’t on my TBR pile as of January 1, with an exception or two for a book club pick or two. It was interesting, and, given some time and focus, I’d like to say more about it. Where it’s got me now though is that I’m trying to keep the (literal, physical) TBR pile at its current (relative) height: only acquiring books as I’m going to read them, be they from the library or the store or borrowing or whatever. And honestly after a year of having “limited” “access” to books having the world at your feet is a little, well, Shawshank Redemption-y, what with the terror of the openness of it and all. So when I say that the Mizumura book was on my radar for a while, I mean it in the sense that, according to the “rules,” it was out of reach. And then this that and the other and because I read for pleasure and not much for review these days and so I go by my whims with these things it took a while before I was able and willing to say, okay, now, do it, now. And now here we are.
** – It’s really, really physical, this book. A sight to hold.
*** – It’s over a hundred pages, told from the point of view of Mizumura, or “Mizumura,” hard to say which, hard to say if it matters yet. Major personal knowledge gap: role or importance of “modernism” and “post-modernism” in non-Western literature.
Suffice it to say I have good reason to believe it must be 2005 because I heard-tell there’s a conversation going on out there about blogging for books or something? About specifically exchanging blog-press for free copies of books? Which, I mean, I thought that was the kind of conversation that people already had once? Like, ten years ago? But I guess I must be confused about the timeline? Because if the conversation is going on right now it must actually still be 2005? And if it’s still 2005 then I guess I’m still blogging? I don’t know? It’s really confusing?
Ha ha, just kidding, I totally know it’s 2014, and I’ve got the barf bag I just filled thinking about it to prove it.
Suffice it to say that I’m not going to link to any of the 2014 equivalent of that dead horse because in part anybody involved in it today probably doesn’t remember or know me worth a damn and they’d just call me a newbie or something and who needs that, jeezus, and also because it was probably a terribly stupid conversation ten years ago and I’m sure it’s only gotten more stupid since (because no offense to anyone who actually works in the industry but I don’t give two figs about your day job making money off my passions when I’m sitting on my porch listening to the summer rain and I’ve got a book in my hand and everything is right with my insular, emotional, intellectual world, any more than you give a damn about me when you benefit from the fruits of my day job’s labor (and in one way or another I’m convinced you have though I don’t often like to think about it or talk about it, being but a sliver of a sliver of a sliver on the back of something much bigger)), and that whole conversation was and is probably a generally useless waste of time and mental resources, and so but, BUT, for the fact that it did spark off a series of what passes for thoughts these days in your faithful narrator’s brain about the passage of time and the seeming near complete de-evolution of conversation and participation on the internet and the professionalizationing of the web and the unreliability of memory and the relationship of said faithful narrator to the written word generated both by himself and others, all of which thoughts have lead in turn to the fleeting glimmers of the births of realizations both personal and profound, about what we’re doing here, you, me, those people over there, anyone else, the rest, and how if that the beating of dead horses is the kind of thing we’re here for these days, then, just, for, the, love, of, no.
And I mean, there’s a lot wrapped up in that no, because if there was ever any contradiction at the core of what writing I’ve done during my life I would suggest that it is that there’s an inherent tension between the need to communicate and the fascination with the uncommunicatable, the thrill of sharing in an experience and the recognition that our experiences are ours alone to hold in our hearts and minds and our degenerating bodies until we die and all our experiences go with us, and I pack it all into that no, which is also a yes, a yes to something else, something new, some other desire or struggle or passing whim, something, something else, that I can’t tell you what it means, but I miss trying. I miss the nostalgia of it. Of passionately failing to ever get it right in this medium that I once took so bloody heart-wrenchingly seriously and which, today, tomorrow, the day after that, could be the last chance.
Things have changed, though, and maybe it matters, and maybe the change matters, and maybe it doesn’t, and maybe the change doesn’t, and maybe nothing’s really changed, and maybe you’ll be moved anyways, maybe I’ll move anyways. Maybe it’s time to move.
Because it’s 2005, and the world is still moving.
Or maybe it’s not.
What if there is no one at the wheel.
What do you mean.
I mean we wonder so much about intent in this novel, about Kohler’s intentions versus Gass’s intentions and whose are primary and how we are meant to conflate or separate the two, but what if neither writer nor narrator is driving this book. What if the whole thing, the bloated bundle of pages, the complete collection of words, the entire enchilada, what if it is all simply symptom, cause’s effect, history’s inevitable utter vomit.
What must of necessity come back out when you stuff the world full to bursting with violence and optimism.
Of course then the question is: what next.
Loss in life: that’s what I mourn for; that’s what we all mourn for, all of us who have been touched by the fascism of the heart. It’s not having held what was in our hands to hold; not having felt the feelings we were promised by out parents, friends, and lovers; not having got the simple goods we were assured we had honestly earned and rightfully had coming.
— from The Tunnel by William Gass
You can read pages and pages of this book without connecting with a word of it, or without seeing the connections that might (or might not) be forming between the words, between them and you. It can feel very much like trying to see the entirety of the horizon from a single black jigsaw puzzle piece, plucked at random from a jar of thick sludge. Who is this guy, what is his story, what is he trying to tell me? Why do I sort of detest him even when I sometimes sort of think he’s maddeningly brilliant in the way he spins his words into meaningful prose?
For all its dispensing of plot and deconstruction of character, though, The Tunnel is still, at heart, a confessional, a book (weirdly) within the confessional tradition. And therefore begs us to allow ourselves to see ourselves in the narrator’s shoes, or, in this book, in his chair. Now and then, recognition glimmers. However murky. However much it sits uncomfortably in our laps.
It’s a perfect book for today, in its way. In our social media culture, how much of each other do we actually ever get to know? Whither the connections?