when I still had any delusions of being a writer, remained on my desktop for as long as I sat at the keyboard. Others, like A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving, or The Comedians by Graham Greene, because they revealed to me what it truly meant to create and tell a story.There is only one book that I wish I'd written because it might have been possible to. One that came so close to my experience; to the story I wanted to tell. The one I might've told had I the talent to do so. And that was Fortress of Solitude, by Jonathan Lethem. It hit me so hard, each sentence felt like a dream of a thought not realized.
I have always been a huge fan of Lethem's. I've loved every book of his I've read, from Girl in Landscape to Motherless Brooklyn, which was the first book of his that I came across. And while I found the story less interesting overall, what impressed me, and what led me to look for his other titles was his incredible talent with language. If you haven't read it, the main character is afflicted with Tourette Syndrome and Lethem does not shy from using the difficulty that creates in communication. Rather, he is unequivocally successful in maintaining not only the flow of conversation, but the poetry of affliction. It was an incredible risk, to use tortured language to tell a story, yet somehow he managed to not only bring to life an unforgettable character, but also never allowed him or his dialogue to become tiresome or distracting.
But Fortress of Solitude. It is not my favorite book of all time, but is simply one of those stories that works on my insides more than an evening out drinking with an old friend. I know a lot of people enjoyed the book, and I know many who raved, but there is something about the way that Lethem wrote it--and frankly this is also a testament to his ability--that manages to express the specific experience of growing up in NYC in the 70s without alienating those who did not. I did not grow up in Brooklyn as his main characters Dylan and Mingus do (it was Queens), and the years they experience are slightly off for me, too. In the end, their experiences fall somewhere between my own and those of my parents. But, his use of the street, the games kids played, the way those streets smelled and sounded, and in particular, his understanding of what it was like, and what it meant, to be a kid from an outer borough. How it felt during your first pilgrimage into Manhattan by yourself. The sense of both belonging and being an absolute outsider in your own hometown, simply because you were a bridge away. The awe of getting on the subway without a parent. Or going to "the Village." Of discovering a new band and a whole new world on a slip of vinyl. Being creative and weird and smart. Of growing out of your childhood joys of reading comics or playing those street games. Watching a brilliant friend destroy themself. Of realizing for the first time that you are not invincible. The way that Lethem was able to meld an experience so specific, without losing the universality of it is quite simply, an incredible accomplishment.
When I finished it and slowly, sadly put it down, I closed any thought of ever writing again. And for the first time, I did not mind at all.
5 comments:
When I finished it and slowly, sadly put it down, I closed any thought of ever writing again.
Now why would you do that? Writing is not a competitive sport (is it?).
Heh, no, not sport. But, why not write fiction anymore? To spare the world ... there's enough pain out there already.
Think those last two sentences were probably unclear, too. That's what I get for rushing posts, and not thinking more before I send them out into the world. I was sad to be finished with the book, because I wanted more, not because I finished any wish to write fiction again. That was, most definitely, a relief.
Interesting about Leonard Cohen qua novelist. I knew he'd written poetry (in fact once tried to broker a signed copy from someone who'd met him), but had no idea he'd ever done any fiction. I'll look out for it. (The reviewer in your link compared Favorite Game to American Beauty, which is one of my favorite movies).
On the competitiveness of artists. My brother in law (ie wife's brother), a very talented painter and general polymath, went to Italy, excited to see works of the Renaissance in the flesh, so to speak. He came back very depressed, however. Because it hit him that, gifted though he was (is), he just couldn't measure up to Michaelangelo. Ego is a terrible thing, what? (This is what I thought you meant by being sad after reading the book).
Perhaps one day you'll have the urge to try fiction again. After years of abstinence, the experiences build up and you'll suddenly find there's something there that needs to be let out.
I sometimes wonder how anyone under 40 manages to write a good book, anyway. Evelyn Waugh, for example, was I think 24 when he wrote Decline and Fall. I couldn't possibly have written anything worth a damn at that age (although I'm sorry to say I did try).
Thanks again for your note. Cohen's actually written two novels, The Favorite Game and Beautiful Losers, which I never warmed to. I can appreciate as an artist how he was trying to stretch himself and take his work somewhere new, but, in the process, I feel as if he lost what it was that made him so compelling (for me personally). It's a good book, but it's not something that a fan of his would look for from him, even a die-hard who would be willing to take the leap alongside, but it's well-written, and certainly worth a read, for curiosity sake alone.
Ego and creativity. I think you hit on it perfectly with the story about your brother-in-law. And I've certainly felt that jealousy, despite myself. I guess what I felt about Fortress of Solitude was beyond that. I was happy to have read something that honest about a little bit of the world that is mine. There has been so much written about the McSweeney's crowd, and I think they're all talented artists, but they come from a place creatively that I've always despised. They're more about the scene than the actual experience, and that's the simplest, quickest way I can think to describe it.
On youth and writing ... I recommend "It's All Right Now" by Charles Chadwick. His first novel, age 72. It's brilliant, and it complements your point perfectly, (my novel, age 19 ... haha ... 'nuff said).
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