The Sportswriter Starts Slow but Finishes Strong

We did not like The Sportswriter.  At least through the first few chapters.  And then the focus shifted from an exhaustively thorough examination of a New Jersey suburb and the protagonist’s unchecked introspection to the real-time interactions of an engrossing set of characters and we simply couldn’t put the book down.  This novel and the entire Frank Bascombe series came so highly recommended that we trudged on.  And we’re glad we did.   

The Sportswriter is the story of Bascombe, a divorced suburban WASP sportswriter in his late-thirties, who, by his own admission “just [tries] not to do any harm.”  He has no illusions about life and is able to find satisfaction in things like a cozy armchair, a well-mixed drink and no-hitters.  He takes the days as they come; an extremely self-satisfied man.  Recovering from the death of his oldest child he is slowly coming back to orbit after his life became shrouded in “dreaminess” following the tragedy.  The story unfolds over a long weekend in his beloved Haddam, New Jersey and a quick excursion to Detroit to interview an ex-football player. 

It’s easy to see why Pat Ford has a Pulitzer on his shelf (Independence Day, the third novel in the Bascombe trilogy) as his gift for finding meaning in the smallest details is evident from page one.  The way that he unearths beauty and truth in his straightforward description of small town life in the Northeast makes him something of a New Jersey Faulkner. 

But this is also perhaps the single aspect of the book that we struggled with the most.  For anyone thirsting for an exemplarily thesis on the Jersey ‘burbs, the first hundred odd pages of The Sportswriter is paydirt.  Add to that a protagonist that has been characterized as smug, even shallow by some critics, and you have cause for valid criticism.  But The Sportswriter is so much more than a man driving through his neighborhood describing what he sees out his car window.  And Bascombe is a comfortably sympathetic character -something like a white collar Springsteen for the Wall-Street commuter class- which Ford impressively employs to cover nearly every square inch of human emotional terrain in just 375 pages.    

Ford is a gifted and empathetic writer and The Sportswriter reads like a cross between The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Updike’s Rabbit novels, with a dash of baseball to spice things up.  It strikes an entertaining balance between character, story, and environment as Bascombe’s existential contemplation weaves almost seamlessly with the character interaction and clever dialogue.  Insightful observational nuggets that can be gleaned from nearly every single page and it’s the type of rewarding read that you won’t soon forget. 

Independence Day (1995) is the more celebrated book of the Bascombe trilogy but The Sportswriter is the introduction to the series and a very impressive book in its own right.  It’s difficult to walk away from this novel not being impressed by Ford’s skill as a writer and eager to read his other works.

The Big Short: And Idiot's Guide to the Financial Crisis

Michael Lewis has done it again.  And this time he has truly outdone himself.  He has taken, what is quite possibly the most boring subject on the planet earth, and made it palatable.  Not just palatable, but actually quite interesting.  And during the process he’s also managed to explain the cause of the Great Recession in terms that even book blog editors and chimpanzees can understand.

The Big Short is Lewis’ finely crafted attempt at distilling the housing market bubble and the eventual collapse of the global financial markets.  He revisits the well-trodden world of Wall Street bond trading, the subject of in his 1989 debut book, Liar’s Poker.  For the uninitiated, this area of debt derivative investing is so byzantine and obscure that the lecturing of its finer points should be banned under the Geneva Accord.  Suffice to say, this confusing and completely made-up investment universe is basically incomprehensible…by design.  Even the people immersed in this paper world of complicated bets don’t understand what’s going on most of the time, and there lies the crux of the financial market meltdown of 2008.

Fortunately, Lewis expertly guides us through the process, while providing insight, understanding and even a few laughs.  Instead of diving into the nuts and bolts of it, in typical fashion, he paints this highly pedantic subject with a humanistic flourish.  He uses a group of peculiar hedge fund managers and traders as his instruments for spicing up the dry subject matter with heroes and scoundrels.  These peculiar characters belong to an exclusive fraternity of less than two dozen or so hedge funders that actually understood what was going on.  And in the face of great ridicule from their peers -and at times themselves- actually bet against the market and made a killing while most people lost their shirts.

What makes this small group of investors extraordinary, aside from their market vision, is their idiosyncrasies and Lewis has a masterful gift for not only spotting such traits but mining them for narrative adhesive as he weaves the storyline together: an Aspergers suffering neurologist turned hedge fund manager; a pair of garage band investment nerds operating out of a shed in Berkeley, CA; a New York Jew intent on exposing the myths of the Talmud and destroying the financial system as we know it; an apocalyptic trader holed up in a survival compound in the mountains; a bond-buyer villain named Wing Chau -these are the narrative vessels that Lewis uses to deconstruct the mortgage-backed securities mess.  And without their colorful personal contributions this subject matter would be impossible for most humans to digest.

And that’s the art of Lewis’ craft.  He’s a thinker on par with Malcom Gladwell and his lively writing is reminiscent of a young Tom Wolfe.  He has a knack for taking impossible to understand, and seemingly unappealing topics, and brilliantly repackaging them into beautiful things like the The Blindside, Moneyball, and The New New Thing, among others.  With his mix of academic understanding and deft treatment of the human experience there simply isn’t’ anyone writing today with his rare skill-set.  Read anything by Lewis you can get your hands on.  You won’t be disappointed.

Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality by Bill Peters

Aaron and I had a vision a couple of years back when we first discussed writing a blog by the name of The Literate Man: to ferret out the best works of modern literary fiction from among the unknown masses, which we were (and are) certain are all too often overlooked by the commercial establishment.  We continue to seek out works that not only entertain but challenge us as readers and break new creative ground in the process.  Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality is precisely what we had in mind.  We give it our highest recommendation.

A few disclaimers are necessary here: I grew up in Western New York, in farm country about 60 miles southwest of Rochester, the self-proclaimed "City of Quality," and the setting for Bill Peters' debut novel.  And like Bill Peters, my appreciation for Western New York and my own formative years, has grown with age and perspective.  We both seem to have great, vivid memories of the Golden Age of the Buffalo Bills, who made it to (and lost) four straight Super Bowls from 1991-1994.  The entire region's preoccupation with that brief glimpse of respectability on the national sports page is reflected again and again in the pages of Maverick Jetpants, not in references to American football per se, but in the holdover Bills-themed clothing worn by Nate and his cohorts.  It is one detail among many that depicts the slow, creeping desperation of daily life in a region in perpetual economic decline since the 1970's.  And Bill Peters captures it with art and precision.

By way of overview, Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality is the entertaining portrait of Nathan Gray, an aimless but sympathetic young man, just a few unproductive years out of high school, as he and his small group of friends grasp about awkwardly (and, perhaps, violently) for what is to become the next stage of their lives.  Nate seems particularly unsuited to make the jump into adulthood, as evidenced by his near obsession with his group's past collective experience and an irrational fear that his best friend, Necro, is poised to leave him behind.  It is a novel that speaks to our common experience in coming of age and our common fears of being left behind by those closest to us.

The most impressive aspect of the novel, however, is Bill Peters' innovative use of dialogue.  The characters speak to one another (and Nate occasionally speaks to the reader) in a lexicon largely unique to his small group of friends--a series of humorous names and labels affixed to their common history.  It is a habit in which we all engage, but rarely notice, and beyond glimpses of the technique in Thomas Pynchon and the writings of David Foster Wallace, it is the first time that I have seen such a device become the centerpiece of a work of fiction.  It makes for a seemingly disjointed (but extremely enjoyable) tale that is woven together by the reader's intuitive understanding of the relationships and events described.  The novel becomes a post-adolescent version of Gravity's Rainbow, where Pirate Prentice is not a delusional American mercenary, but a retiring Generation X slacker, and post-World War II Europe becomes the post-industrial decline of the American rust belt.

Reportedly ten years in the making, Maverick Jetpants in the City of Quality announces the arrival of a powerful and innovative young voice in American fiction.  

A River Runs Through It : Man, Nature and the Art of Fly Fishing

Editors Warning: This is one of the manlier books we’ve ever reviewed at The Literate Man so if you’re not ready for a blast of testosterone handle with care; side effects may include a sprouting of chest hair, deepening of voice and referring to women as subordinate and marginal plot devices.  But if you’re not the type of reader frightened off by such things, a beautiful story and some mesmerizing writing lays ahead.

A River Runs through It is a haunting tale of sorrow and regret as the author, at the age of 71, attempts to make sense of the painful and complex relationship with his gifted, but troubled, brother.  He begins with the opening sentence, “In our family there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing” and he ends with this: “I am haunted by waters.”  In between these two poetic bookends lies a treasure of manly and moving prose.  There’s nothing sentimental in his powerful words and the poignancy of the writing is delicately and expertly balanced against the ruggedness of the characters.

Set in Northwestern Montana during the early decades of the 20^th century, when the Wild West was still alive, and bold and cavalier men carved their existence out of the mountains around them, Maclean and his brother grow up Presbyterians and fisherman; not necessarily in that order.  Their relationship was a volatile one, as brotherhood can be, and there’s an incurable lament in the author’s tone as he re-examines their relationship, their adventures, and the unspoken words between them.

A River Runs Through It is also a love letter to the art of fly fishing.  If you’re an aficionado of the sport, Maclean’s ode to his family’s pastime and passion will hypnotize you.  There may be no more beautiful writing about fishing anywhere in literature.  The care he takes to describe the detail and joy of the sport, and above all, the reverence, seemingly explains man and nature in such pure and simple terms, that if Maclean was even half as good a fisherman as he was a writer, than he was truly a master of the fly-rod.  His skillful words tease out the artistry of everyday life and the in-the-moment perfections of an imperfect world.  And he makes you feel like life is a bit fuller with a fly-rod in your hand.

The obvious comparison to Hemmingway is unavoidable.  From the onset, the economic and minimalistic writing style, as well as the subject matter, and aforementioned chauvinistic tones are abundantly evident.  But Maclean, using the same methods and tools, achieves an intimacy that we rarely, if ever, find in Hemmingway’s writing.  And this is no small feat.  The writing is Spartan at times but rings with a clarity and poignancy that is rarely achieved in this –or any- genre of novel.

Originally published as part of a three story collection, and spanning 161(tiny) pages, A River Runs Through It is a novella of extraordinary quality.  For the book collector/fishing enthusiast, we suggest the Pennyroyal Press hardcover edition with wood carved lithographs by Barry Moser. It’s a handsome book that includes a dozen exquisite imprints of flies, fishing scenes and the author.  This book is one of our favorites, and certainly one that every literate man should have on his bookshelf.

Midnight’s Children Gives Every Novelist Something to Aspire to

Contrary to what the Grand Ayatollah may have to have to say on the subject, Salman Rushdie is a damn fine writer.   You may recall the Iranian Book-Critic-in-Chief’s dissatisfaction with the fatwa-spawning Satanic Verses, but we can assure you that even his “Supreme Holiness” was impressed by Rushdie’s masterpiece, Midnight’s Children.   The story of a man born on the stroke of midnight on August 15^th, 1947, the same moment that India gained its nationhood, and the intertwining of their own dysfunctional histories and futures; it’s a brilliant bit of storytelling and literary genius. 

Midnight’s Children is a work of such rare excellence that there’s not really much more to say about it.  Every conceivable superlative has been slapped on this book and far finer minds than our own have sung it’s praise and lauded its merits.  No less than the Man Booker Prize committee deemed it the best novel of the past 40 years when it awarded it the one-off Best of the Booker Award in 2008.  And now Mr. Rushdie your finest hour: a shout out on The Literate Man.  Well done, old boy!

But lengthy intro aside, this book is so obviously extraordinary, with so many flattering reviews already in print and in cyberspace, that posterity would probably thank us for ending this piece right now.  But we won’t!

Instead, let us count the ways (five) in which our minds were staggered by this work.  First, the sheer ambition and scale of this saga is enough to turn your brain into sawdust.  Rushdie’s packed enough content inside the 533 pages for a dozen novels.  It’s an epic on the scale of War and Peace or East of Eden, but condensed into half the pages.  There’s so many competing themes at work here (coming-of-age, the birth of a nation, ageless religious conflict, culture clashes, family dynasty, etc.) that in the care of a lesser writer this story would be stillborn.  But Rushdie’s mighty talents allow him to weave these ideas into a seamless tapestry that never feels forced, confusing, or worse: boring.

And how does he do this?  By narrating the journey through the eyes of a self-important crackpot.  The Quixotic protagonist adds levity to the heavier themes with his distinct and whimsical voice.  And this is the second point: a fresh, original, and fantastic protagonist point of view. 

Thirdly, the pell-mell stream of consciousness narrative, jumping from present to past and from one scattershot thought to the next add an element of artistic flair that elevates this tale above almost every other literary epic.  Protagonist Saleem and the country of India become one and the same through Rushdie’s brilliant allegory, which is teased to the surface through an earthy mix of magical realism that comes as close to distilling the essence of India onto a sheet of paper as is possible.

Which brings us around the fourth point: Rushdie’s use of local dialects and cultural detail.  He brilliantly mimics the local pigeon and mannerisms of the various subcontinent’s cultures, further deepening the reach of the story and providing a hard-earned authenticity.

And if that weren’t’ enough to convince you to pick up this book than a fifth and final note of praise is due to the author for his courage.  And not his courage in tackling such vast and broad-ranging subject matter, but real courage for attacking the authoritarian regime that nearly strangled the life out of the young nation-state in the 70’s and 80’s and which earned him a libel lawsuit from none other than disgraced former Prime Minister Indira Gandhi.

In summary, -and after five hundred odd words of redundancy- Midnight’s Children is one of the finest novels ever written in the English language.

(Editor’s Note:  This review coincides with the recent release of Rushdie’s autobiography, Joseph Anton. It’s been well received by critics, and for any lovers of biography, you’re guaranteed top-notch writing and certainly an interesting subject matter as he delves into his years hiding from Muslim assassins.  Enjoy!)

Aesthetic Experience, by Lucas Hunt

[Editor's Note: We at TLM have been fortunate to have made many friends in literary circles around the country and the world.  One such friend is Lucas Hunt, who both writes beautiful, critically-acclaimed poetry and contributes from time to time to our meager efforts here at TLM to spread the good word.  Enjoy.]

I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing. --T.S. Eliot

Our reactions to works of art differ from our reactions to other things in a remarkable way. We look at paintings, listen to music, read poetry, and grow conscious of the distinct impressions they have on us. In a perhaps more tangible way, we stand near buildings with architectural presence, watch films with emotional resonance, and come to realize how powerful representations of life can be.

We become aware of something in ourselves as we experience works of art. There may be a strange, yet familiar, force at play, which changes our understanding of things. There may be a sudden clarity, or wild disorientation, as we participate in a dialogue with an artist who is neither present nor sure of our existence. And we pass a subjective judgment, deeply informed by the unconscious, on a work of art, that might last forever.

To better identify the aesthetic experience, let’s look at poetry, for a poem can burn brighter in the dark. It is a foot in the door of time, a kind of entry that makes uncommon sense to the soul. Poetry is a threshold to possibility, which incorporates all things, even death. Who does not want to come into more direct contact with life, especially thru words?

Poetry is the most exceptional form of human language. It expresses our passion with an exactness that defies rational thought. It is the man who is alive, and the man who is dying, walking in the same direction, down the same road. When you read a poem or hear one read aloud, a lyrical transformation occurs in the heart. The rhythm of breath and pulse alter to receive the message of the poem. Its essential feeling becomes yours for a spell. It all depends on how you take it.

It was his nature to suppose,

To receive what others had supposed, without
Accepting. He received what he denied.

But as truth to be accepted, he supposed

A truth beyond all truths.

This passage from Landscape with a Boat by Wallace Stevens fits perfectly with the notion of aesthetic experience as it differs from other experiences. There are physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, and sexual experiences, to name just a few. Such experiences can be described in terms that are recognizable. We can be relatively certain that our bodies, thoughts, feelings, religious attitudes, and erotic appetites can in some way be shared with others. Aesthetic experience has another dimension.

It occurs to the artist that there is something more to life than already exists. They use the inspiration to create, and suffer from it. It is generally perceived that all people experience a type of artistic motivation at some time in their lives, but often, the impulse gets diverted to other types of experience. However, that does not mean the desire or appreciation for a purely aesthetic experience disappears in those who do not personally express it. On the contrary, the hunger grows. Witness our passion for popular music, cinema, and sporting events. (The latter is an experience with multiple aesthetic qualities, the beauty of athletic performance just one.)

Because the artist makes and does things, others can get a sense of their own creative powers thru the various forms of art. Artists act as mediums to the great aesthetic experience human beings crave. We are mortal, but that’s not it. There has always been a sense of something more, beyond ourselves, that finds expression in the notes of a song, the colors of a painting, or the words of a book. There is a fleeting thing that takes flight when we experience a work of art that comes to represent our very souls.

We were born with the ability to appreciate things not just for what they are, rather for what they might be. Aesthetic experience goes back to childhood, when our imaginations were more potent than the world. Nothing really mattered; it was what you made of things. There was an active, participatory, wildness about experience that swirled in a mix of uncontrollable fascination. If we could have spoken during our early lives (but why break the silence?), it would likely have been in poetry. The poetry of aesthetic experience.

______________________

 

Lucas Hunt was born in rural Iowa, and is the author of Light on the Concrete, published in 2011 to critical acclaim. He studied at the University of Iowa Writers Workshop, and in the M.F.A. program at Southampton College. He is the recipient of a John Steinbeck Award for poetry, and lives in East Hampton, New York, where he works at a literary agency.

Try The Geography of Bliss For Your Next Bookation

With summer practically over, and many of us lamenting the vacation that we didn’t take, Eric Weiner offers the next best thing: a bookation!  That’s a made-up word, of course, but it refers be any book that so thoroughly transports the reader it’s like going on a trip without ever leaving the comforts of your reading space.  And The Geography of Bliss: One grump’s search for happiness is one of the most enjoyable bookations we’ve been on in awhile.

There are million of books in the world that profess how to be happy, but Weiner gives us something we can really use by showing us where to be happy.  Admittedly, the study and search of happiness is a little like a hunting Sasquatch or unicorns, but more and more people with really big brains, and even governments, are dedicating an increasing amount of time and resources to this emerging field.  And (spoiler alert!), while anyone looking for an “x marks the spot” guide to happiness will probably not find it, what you will find is a clever, entertaining and thought-provoking examination of people and cultures around the world and a pretty respectable attempt at isolating the keys to happiness. 

Wiener, a long-time foreign correspondent for NPR and reporter for The New York Times, sets out to find the happiest place on the planet and unearth the essential components to this harmony.  He does this by not only searching out the so-called happiest places, according to various polls and studies, but by also venturing to the least happy places –according to these same measures- on earth as well.  He travels to nearly a dozen countries (India, the Netherlands, Singapore, Moldova, Iceland, Bhutan, Qatar, Great Britain, Thailand and the US) to see what happiness is all about. 

Over the 325 pages we learn that happiness is many things to many people.  For example, binge drinking and vocational failure apparently translate to happiness in Iceland.  That Bhutan’s government actually measures the mountain kingdom’s contentment through its Gross National Happiness index, in place of GDP.  That Moldovans love misery.  That the Swiss are uptight, and yet, very happy.  That the Thai people have a scientific method for spotting fake smiles.  But perhaps most revealing is the counterintuitive concept that the more a person focuses on being happy the less happy they’ll likely be.

A self-admitted “grump” Wiener fortunately doesn’t let any of his personal discontent spill over into the narrative and the writing is crisp, lively and full of insight.  And it’s often pretty funny.  Equal parts philosophy guide, travelogue and social commentary, it never drags and there’s always something new to discover on the next page.  The book touches on many scientific studies and academic interviews, but it’s hardly a scientific or academic work.  Wiener includes just enough of the starch to prop up his colorful narrative and give it a point of reference.

Aside from creating a hugely readable and revealing book, Wiener manages to successfully take the reader on a trip around the world from the comfort of an arm chair.  His disarming writing style and investigative journalist skills puts the reader right in the middle of a temple in Bhutan, or the back of van in Moldova, or a coffee shop in Amsterdam, or a grimy strip club in Bangkok.  And while we may never know exactly where the happiest place on earth is (“happiness is a moving target”), Weiner’s given us a pretty good idea of where to start looking.  TLM highly recommends The Geography of Bliss.