As if there could be such a thing as an initial final reaction to a book I’ve been reacting to steadily for the last two straight weeks: the dust has barely settled on the cover of my copy of The Instructions by Adam Levin and I know there’s conversation set to happen at some point at Counterbalance and so I’m going to try not to blow all my best material here (the bestness of my material being, as always, intra-comparative as opposed to extra-comparative) but I don’t think any of that should halt me from at least tentatively suggesting that this thousand page McSweeney’s title is essentially a good book, a better than good book, a book that no one’s taste could be cast into doubt for considering it a “great” book (“greatness” here being a relatively internal-relative concept, the book potentially being great in itself without attempting to necessarily draw direct comparisons to other “great works of literature,” though it certainly wants that, wants to be taken seriously on that level, a modern day classic in the self-making, as it were), though, personally, I might stop shy (at least for now) of affixing (any sort of) “greatness” to it, in that the dust is still settling and I’m still reacting, still reactive, still a bit taken off guard by how much I did, in fact, like this book (being quite a bit), and, well, the time of judging is no time to cast judgment. Or I’m just a puss. I don’t know. All of which said (and there being much more yet to be said, and I hope as much of it gets said as possible) my main point for now is this: if it’s the kind of book you think you might be interested in reading, then, well, it’s a book that is largely worth reading. I couldn’t fault you for not wanting to read it, or just for falling off onto the wrong side of the fence; lacking the particular nudge I received this time, I’d really rather have likely opted not to read it any time soon, just, because, well, things, but, here I am, and I read it now rather than later, and, in the end, the beginning of the rest of the life I’ll lead after I’ve read this thousand page McSweeeney’s title (a reference I drop again so I can at least tentatively admit that this book is no The Children’s Hospital though that’s a fine thing for it not to be because The Children’s Hospital was a brutal book that broke parts of my brain and heart and I couldn’t have standed to have gone through that again just yet, but, still, yet, this book, The Instructions, it works in a similar sort of sphere as The Children’s Hospital which kind of points the way toward McSweeney’s being a focal point for interesting contemporary literature about fucked-up religious things, which is, you know, cool by me), I can say that I’m glad I read this book now, and, someday, I might read it again, which, I think, is saying something.
But okay, no, for serious: Stoner, by John Williams, is a great book, and is one of the best reading experiences I’ve had this year, or even in the last several years. In part because of context: I was working on my next book review when I read this one, and I’d read that book once, the review title book, and that one did things to me that I could not entirely define for myself yet, and so I knew I’d need to read it again, but I didn’t want to read it again immediately–I needed to step away from it, for a moment, the way you might step away from a mirror only to return to it later to find yourself familiar in some surprising way, like deja vu refracted through a glass of thick water. And that review title does a whole bunch of complex things in intriguing ways, and for whatever reason, I picked up Stoner off the perpetually one-foot-tall TBR pile, and, I mean, it’s cliche to say you can’t stop reading a book, but, like love, it’s so damn real and completely not cliche when you’re actually in it, all the more so since I hadn’t been in that specific place in a while, it seemed like–I mean, I’d read some other good books earlier this year, but usually in a, well, this is great, but I can also go rack up some trophies on the PlayStation, too, and have a good time tonight as well, right? Not so, with Stoner. I spent my days at work looking forward to going home so I could read more of it. This book reminded me that I had forgotten slightly just what the fig leaf a good book is supposed to do: strip away your modesty, leave you emotionally naked before it, make you need it. It is a book that makes you become a person. And this from a book that from its opening paragraph seems like it’s got jack-all to do or go toward–I mean, it lays out the fact in the opening paragraph that the title character lives a life and then he dies and it didn’t much matter to anybody except maybe to him. Which is pretty much a huge bummer but, what, now I have to read a couple hundred more pages about this fellow? No. Please. But! The thing is, the opening paragraph is a feint, or perhaps a huge lie; because, yes, spoiler alert, you are reading about the life of a guy who will, by the end of the book, die, except, in the time you spend with him, in the time you spend reading Williams’s perfectly reasonable, perfectly paced, perfectly rhythmic, perfectly unostentatious prose, he, Stoner, comes to mean a little more to you than most strangers ever will. At least, so it seemed to go for me. And it’s sad but it’s so strong. If I was the crying sort, I probably would have, around the time I finished. But I did not cry, and I set it down, and I returned to the book about which I was due to write a review, and I felt recharged, and refreshed, and ready to take this world of literature on again, one book at a time. My craving was reborn.
And so, tell me, please, because I would like to know: what book has done that for you?
Stoner by John Williams is a great book. Please consider this a heartfelt, enthusiastic recommendation; please consider reading the book.
Books! I’ve read a few this year. So far. I’m not expecting much in the way of surprise between now and the end of the year, though–seems like it’s all sort of mapped out. Like, there’s this guy, you may have heard of him, Jonathan Franzen? Yeah, he’s got a new novel coming out in a week. I’m looking forward to reading it. I don’t care that the entire internet is already tired of hearing about Jonathan Franzen and the fact that he has a new book coming out. I’m still looking forward to reading it. Marketing: it works! Or it does not work! Either way! And there are some other things I’ve got roughly slated out, seems like; there’s a book I’m reading now, which I’m going to be writing a review of for a place other than here for later this year. (I’ve got another review slated to come out in about a month for a place other than here, which I’m really looking to seeing hit the streets, and for the book to hit the streets, because I want other people to read the book, and then I want them to read my review, and then I want them to either whole-heartedly agree with me, or violently disagree with me, such that discussion of a civil or uncivil nature may occur. It is a book that after reading it twice and writing a review of it I am still struggling with my feelings and opinions about it, and more so than many books I read, I want not to feel like I am in a cultural vacuum of my own making with this one. So.) (Also, yes, no, I do not talk about the books I am doing reviews of, while I am doing the reviews of them, or before the reviews come out; I do this in part out of a vague sense of professionalism, a vague sense that if I’ve got a word to say about the book I really ought to save it for the review, a vague sense that if I start talking a book up outside a review I will curse the existence of the review which the book is intended for me to prompt–for vague reasons, in short, but reasons none the less, all of which is unfortunate in that it makes it seem like a book’s got to be targeted for me to write about it anywhere but here for it to get any play from me, which would be fine, if I was writing reviews full time, which I am not, nor do I see myself doing so any time in the near future, or even a less near future, so. It’s a thing. A situation. A sitch.) (And yes, I do mostly realize my blog-post writing style of late (or of ever) sort of makes me look like a jerk–people don’t read, Darby, you jerk!–but that is okay because something has to remind me that there is more to life than succinct customer-focused messaging. Ahem.) (Oh, but yeah, like I was saying up there, you know that since I don’t talk about books I’m reviewing outside of the context of the review before the release of the review, that the fact that I’m even almost writing about a book before a review I’m writing about it has been released means that I am positively bursting at the seams to talk about it and see it talked about. I want more for this book from me. Whatever that more may be.) (Whatever that more ever may be.) And there’s a new Rick Moody book out? Which is a science fiction future satire or something? Whatever, sign me up. And I’ve got a stack on the coffee table which seems to perpetually remain at the same height however many books I take off of it. Which isn’t that many, lately, what with school, and school, and work, and life, and other projects, and things, but still, I know I do read books, I see the small pile of books I’ve finished, but, like, the “to be read sooner than other books that are also very much to be read” stack seems stuck, like some tower made of hands? That are playing that sandwich game? You know the one? So like, I take one medium size book off, and then Francine Prose writes a glowing review of some books by Hans Keilson, and then there’s two more smaller books back up on the pile? It’s a rough calculus. And, I mean, Summer of Dostoevsky ’06, right? Gonna wrap that one up any day now? Am I? Am I. Point being, there’s no sense in me not starting to wrap up the year now by finally getting around to talking about the books I’ve read over the course of the year. It’s future-leaning retrospective. Yes. Books. I’ve read a few of them this year. And a few of them, I’d like to talk to you about them. If I may.