Three Writers' Deaths Overshadowed

This has been a rough year for me where losing favorite writers is concerned, which is not to say that I knew any of them personally, but as any devoted reader knows, it's easy to feel attached to a writer after awhile simply by repeated close readings of his work.  The pain of these losses is worse, however, when these deaths are ignored by the press, or overshadowed by the death of someone even more famous at around the same time, and whom the press considers more important and more interesting to cover.

So, first came Louis Auchincloss on January 26, 2010.  Although he is a novelist, I  have read only his short stories, which are well-crafted works of art and genius.  His stories remind me of Woody Allen's New York movies in setting and the social class of his characters, and the loneliness and disillusionment epitomized by the stories and novels of Richard Yates.  I confess to having discovered Auchincloss in an ignominious way: on a car trip to USF to do some holistic scoring for the state some years ago, I stopped as I often did at the Goodwill store in Brandon, FL just outside Tampa where I picked up a hardcover, still plastic slip-covered, of "The Collected Stories of Louis Auchincloss" that had been withdrawn from the Tampa-Hillsborough County Library. I began reading the stories that very night in my hotel room, transfixed. Since then I've seen many of these hardcovers at booksales and thrift stores, so I guess they were remaindered from stores and pulled from library circulation in other places too. Well, in fairness to the Times, it did run a nice obituary about Auchincloss, but that seemed to be the end of it. Unless I missed it, one of those laurel-wreathed "Appreciations" at the bottom of the editorial page was not written about him, nor did I see articles in the arts section as sometimes appear following the death of a writer.

Say, like--J. D. Salinger, also who died on January 27, 2010, the day after Auchincloss.  You can see where this is going.  Everybody knows Salinger and has read "Catcher" as it is abbreviatedly called now, and practically everyone has read "Franny and Zoey" (when my son was about 2, we met a set of twins at the park one day, named Franny and Zoey--these are probably not the only ones, nor Seymours for that matter) and "Seymour, An Introduction," "Nine Stories," and "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenter."  And he'd been a recluse and so on, so the press went absolutely nuts over him, giving Auchincloss, who might have on a slow news day possibly reached the attention of a few readers not familar with his work, no chance at all.

The same thing happened with poor Howard Zinn who YES also died on January 27, 2010. Unlike with Auchincloss, though, who did get a nice obit with a picture and lots of detailed biography from the Times, I frantically searched the papers for days for Zinn's obituary. Finally, I phoned the NYT, and the woman who took my call said that the obit had been published in the Metro section, not the front section. "The METRO section?" I howled. Her reason was that he was born in New York. Yes, I said, but he spent his life in and around Cambridge, MA and was a national and international figure.  He wasn't only a local. Well, she directed me to the online article, but it wasn't the same and I was very angry about this because I knew that it was all because the paper was in an absolute froth over Salinger and simply could not be bothered with poor old leftist Howard Zinn, despite a few mentions later, which did not make up in any way for the dearth of attention right after his death.

Which leaves us this week with Harvey Pekar.  He died on July 12, 2010, and George Steinbrenner the next day, the 13th.  Pekar got some press because he'd been on TV before ("Letterman") and had a movie made about him, and of course was a writer of comics, much more accessible to people than the the sometimes 40- page long stories of a writer like Auchincloss.  But even Pekar lacked a fighting chance despite these factors against a sports figure like Steinbrenner.  It doesn't matter what someone writes in America; sports will trump writing every time. I'm sure that Steinbrenner was important, but it just seems that Pekar's death is being overshadowed by Steinbrenner's, thereby preventing people from properly mourning, remembering, and perhaps even discovering him (beyond the movie, that is).

Another writer this year (April 25, 2010) whose death really stung was that of Alan Sillitoe, the UK's quintessential angry young man whose story of a borstal boy "The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner" captured a political mood and a social restlessness as well as any literary work ever has.  No larger death overshadowed his, and he was recognized in the Times with a nice obituary, but beyond that, I carried the sadness alone.  And that's been the hardest part of all of this, in a way.  To go to work, at a job where people supposedly are well read, and hear not a peep from anyone about Sillitoe, or Auchincloss, or Zinn.  There's no sense of community to commiserate with or reminisce with either about these authors.  There's nothing more depressing than telling someone you care about that one of your favorite writers died that day and hearing in response, "Who? Never heard of him."

So silently I recall the ways that these writers have spoken to me, and the nights I've spent reading their work, and the fact that their books are in easy reach, not in a far off room, and that I can put my hands on them right away, and that they are writers whose work I have not only read, but re-read, as I do now, after each death. I neatly scissor out each obituary, even (sigh) Salinger's, fold it up, and tuck it into the pages of one of that author's magnificent books, so that at least I will remember, even if no one else in my Delray world will.

Consumerism Fills Imagination Gap

Last night as I attempted my physician-ordered daily hour-long walk (to help speed healing after surgery, but which I should do anyway, of course), I observed two long lines in the middle of Town Center Mall: one spilling out of the Apple store, and then its continuation, beginning at the Starbucks kiosk, not too far away from this fountain. Badge-wearing Apple employees in blue polo shirts manned the lines and kept order among the ranks by chatting and offering pleasant updates on the line's progress. All of this I found out was because of the latest iPhone. Many of the folks in line waiting for the new iPhone passed the time, you guessed it, amusing themselves on their current iPhones, which obviously still worked. Among the people standing in line were a uniformed postman, and a woman on crutches and whose right leg was in a cast. Didn't the mailman have a hard enough day doing his job in over 90 degree heat? He wants to waste his precious evening standing in line in the mall for a phone? And the broken leg lady?  She's going to put herself through standing and hobbling through not one but two long lines just to get a new phone? 

Then in this morning's New York Times appear pictures of a young, healthy New York man, holding up his new iPhone as if it were a trophy, or an archeological find.  Another young man pictured in the paper had painted the word "iPhone" on his face. I found this all rather sad. It's not sad that people want the iPhone; we all want things, and by all accounts, the iPhone is a cleverly designed and useful device. What I find sad is that people want this device so badly that they are standing in these crazy lines, and wasting precious time that a few weeks from now would not need to be expended to buy this same item.  What's sad is that some people feel that the only way that they believe they are somebody is to buy something that, although for a short time, they will be among the few to own.  And yet even this is fallacious if you see how many people are standing in line to become "early adopters." How can they feel that they are unique or special in getting this phone now, as they stand in line with hundreds of others who are doing the same (and thousands of others if they consider other lines in other places)?  My friend's idea was that these people will be the first in their circle of friends to own it, but for how long? A few weeks? A month?  And then when all of their friends have the phone, too, what next will these people have to buy to distinguish themselves, to feel unique?

In place of the imagination that drives people to develop themselves, and become who they want to be or can be, some folks simply buy things.  The iPhone fills the gap created by a lack of  imagination, the imagination that otherwise inspires people to learn languages, play instruments, practice sport, art, science and business, and do many other fulfilling things.  These are things, too, that define one better than possessing a mass-produced device owned and a few years later discarded by millions of other people.  

Of course, the corporations benefit a lot from this state of affairs.  Once one device loses its ability to confer upon its owner a kind of uniqueness, then another device awaits him so that the cycle repeats, ad infinitum. The attention garnered by the early adopter arouses in his or her friends their desire to garner the same, spurring more sales, until the tipping point when so many people own the device that the cachet is now gone and society moves on to the next thing, repeating the process. This is not to say that everyone who buys an iPhone buys it to fill this imaginative void; many people probably simply like the product. It's hard to believe, however, that the people standing in line in Town Center yesterday were not craving something besides just the phone.

Latest Read (in progress): John Murray

I perhaps shouldn't discuss this since I've not yet finished it (this go-around anyway; I read it when I first bought an advance copy for $1 at the Miami Book Fair International in November 2003), but since each story is the length and density of a novella, it seems as if in finishing the first story, "The Hill Station," that I have completed something already.  I am now in the midst of "All the Rivers in the World," which is set oddly in Florida and Maine, the former, my home, and the latter where I spent a bit of time last July, and where my son will be leaving for a month on Sunday. Part of the story is set also in Rwanda (no personal connection there).

If Ethan Canin and Jhumpa Lahiri co-wrote a story, it would sound just like "The Hill Station." The medical knowledge and precision of Canin are here, as is Lahiri's skill at rendering the sights and smells of India through the eyes of a successful American born-daughter of Indian parents, who is reconciling her Indian roots with an American sensibility. It's medical without being clinical, and emotionally restrained without being cold. 

"All the Rivers in the World" finds medicine of diminished importance in the narrative, but the same precision and clarity of information remain, although this time concerning lobster fishing, hardware, and Florida currents; in short, Murray knows a lot about a lot. In this story, too, the central character is emotionally detached, but not so much so that he does not command some empathy from the reader. More soon to come.

Latest Read: Remains of the Day

This is one of those well-regarded, Booker Prize-winning books that I should have read a long time ago. I've owned a copy long enough, and plucking it from the shelf two days ago is part of my end-of-the-month and still-owe-the-music-camp-money poverty. Much is made to clothing accumulators of shopping one's closet these days, but as a book accumulator, I shop instead my bookshelves for books that I own but haven't yet read. 

I should not have waited so long to read this marvelous book and yet, as often happens with book procrastinations, this was possibly the best time in my life for me to read it. A convalescent lethargia offered the ideal mental climate for this slow, quiet narrative, clearly inflected with a very Edwardian-Modernist nostalgia, though not of the romanticized John Betjeman sort, mind you. Something darker, but still sepia-toned (as is appropriately the cover of my copy, printed obviously before the "movie tie-in's" featuring the now young-ish looking Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson).  

The most captivating aspect of the book is the way that the narrator, Stevens, reveals himself to the reader long before revealing himself to himself.  Through his words and reminiscences, the reader sees him to be quite a different man than he believes himself to be.  Even by the end, when he glimpses something of the truth, he doesn't seem to let it sink in long enough to do anything with the realization, either because it's too painful to accept, or because he believes it is too late to do anything about it, or both. In any case, there's something delightful from a reader's standpoint in seeing the unfolding of this man's (and his late employer's) true nature, when he himself--in the revelation--fails to see it. This, I believe, is Ishiguro's true accomplishment here. This revelatory non-revelation is extremely subtle, and not in any way the heavy-handed narrative equivalent of someone unknowingly trailing toilet paper from his shoe on his way out of the men's room. This narrator is, actually, somewhat reflective, and, one might say, even self-reflective. But he is so selective about those subjects of reflection, that he clearly has walled off from consciousness--again, until much later in the novel, and then only briefly--those personal qualities and life decisions that have shaped the direction of (and some might even say, ruined) his entire life.  

Despite this book's somber tone and, at times, dark subjects, it uses humor well, and unexpectedly.  Ishiguro finds ways, even in moments of tension or sadness, to insert something funny--which, again, the narrator--although the vehicle of the humor, seems to miss completely (therefore adding another layer of humor).  For example, in one scene near the end of the novel, when the stoic, stolid narrator shows at last some welcome emotion and is offered a handkerchief, Ishiguro undercuts what could have come off as a maudlin moment with humor: "'Oh dear, mate. Here, you want a hankie?  I've got one somewhere.  Here we are. It's fairly clean. Just blew my nose once this morning, that's all. Have a go, mate.'" Oddly enough, just a few lines later follows one of the most earnest monolouges of the entire novel, and rather than taking away from it, this funny bit makes it more genuine than it might have seemed otherwise. 

Part of what makes this character so believable (in addition to the touches of humor, often at the narrator's expense) is the way that he cloaks his emotional laziness (or fear, or both; this novel's simple plot belies psychological complexity) in professional duty, or as Stevens says, "dignity." Signs that things are not as they appear to be (regarding his employer, his father, his colleague Miss Kenton and himself) go completely unreckoned with at the occasions of their emergence, and are considered only superficially, decades later, during this narrative.  Another true-to-life characteristic of Stevens is the way that he gives another of the book's characters, Mrs. Benn (nee, Miss Kenton), advice that he himself should take, and needs.  Does the narrator realize that the advice he is giving is best meant for himself, and find that giving it to another is the only way that he can accept it, or, is Ihsiguro using irony here in having his character unknowingly (and therefore somewhat comically) pass along the knowledge that he most needs?  It's hard to say. Similarly, it is only late in the novel when comments made much earlier, like this one fewer than 50 pages in, reveal their actual object: "At this very moment, no doubt, she is pondering with regret decisions made in the far-off past that have now left her, deep in middle-age, so alone and desolate." Who, indeed, is really "alone" and "desolate?"

This is a beautiful book, which undoubtedly has inspired many people to follow in real life the travel route that Stevens takes through Ishiguro's capably painted English countryside. But it is also a thoughtful book about the consequences of wanting to see people as better than they are, not cutting our losses, the fear of feelings, the way life can lull us into disregarding the significances of things as they happen, and the price we might pay later, if we do.

Celery Seed Warning

Am I the sole person out there who eats out only when invited by friends who are flush enough to pick up the check? The problem is that the most generous and frequent inviter in my life prefers restaurants that I don't like. Too tired to cook, however, last night, too grateful to look a gift horse in the mouth, and too broke to buy groceries, I accepted his invitation to, gulp, dinner at the Boca Ale House on Yamato. Suffice it to say, it's very hard to find something good to eat at this place, and I don't care whose paying: I am not going to waste anyone's $20+ on an "entree" at the Boca Ale House. 

Twice before I ordered the off-menu grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, which is very good, by the way.  Last night, though, I wanted more veggies than that offered, and tried a new item on this menu, an Apple-Walnut salad. The good news is that this is an all-Romaine salad. The bad news is that the dressing is loaded with celery seeds. If you like celery seeds, go for it, but if not, beware.  Truth be told, I asked about the dressing while ordering the salad, and the waitress told me that the servers called it simply, "the apple-walnut dressing," I presumed not because those were its ingredients but because it went with that salad. So, I elected the dressing intended for the salad. Not so good. I can tolerate some celery seed in a cole slaw, but this was just too much.

The salad is good, however, even if the scattering of gorgonzola (and walnuts) was a little stingy. On the flip side, the allotment of dried cranberries was too generous, as the salad dressing and chopped apple trained it toward the sweet anyway. Still, this salad looked much better than the plates of everything else drifting by.  Next month is my birthday, so perhaps I will pick the restaurant then.  In the meantime, I will ferret out the best options on the menus of  the bar-themed, and corporate restaurants that my friend frequents.

Too Many Cars

An odd thing that I've noticed upon moving to Delray is that in my neighborhood people seem to collect cars. I don't mean vintage cars or anything, but rather that when they get a new car, they do not seem to get rid of the old one. My neighbor across the street has 5 cars, only 2 of which are driven.  One is under a tarpaulin, and another sits unmoved next to it, a third is parked in the driveway of the vacant house next door, and the remaining 2 are driven--one everyday, and the other maybe just a few times a month.  One of my next door neighbors, a single guy, has at least 3 vehicles in his driveway--2 trucks and a car, and other people in the neighborhood seem to store cars in various states of repair and disrepair, depending, in backyards, driveways, front yards--anywhere. Not every house is like this, of course, but many are.  I wonder why this happens.  What is gained by having so many cars, especially if they are rarely or never used?  This is a Delray mystery for me to watch unfold and possibly, down the road, (intentional pun--sorry) reveal itself.

Latest Read

My father took to reading my copy of Quantum while he was here, so I read another book in the meantime.  I picked up Summer People by Brian Groh on July 23, 2009 at the Merrimack Public Library book sale in New Hampshire last summer, but didn't feel the urge to read it then. This bit of light summer reading was perfect for this time of fatigue and convalescence.

It was OK.  This quick read, requiring no intelligence or thought whatsoever-- is one of those washover books that is indispensable during times of illness, frequent interruptions, plane rides and such.  So, from that standpoint it was good.  As something more than a time-passer, however, it did not offer me much.Though the novel focuses ostensibly on a beach-side community in Southern Maine, there really is not that much solid description of the area. Had I not carried many images of the place from my own time there to fill in as I read, I'm not certain that the picture would have been very clear.  The characters, too, disappointed.  Is it too old-fashioned to wish for at least one character with whom the reader can sympathize, or at least feel a bit of fondness for?  All of the characters here are unappealing, with the exception perhaps of Eldwin, the hard-drinking, former punk pastor who befriends the novel's--dare I be so harsh?--lazy, self-obsessed, whiny, messy, self-pitying protagonist, even whose drawing skills and interest in graphic novels, are not sufficient to redeem him, at least in this reader's eyes.  If he were horrible and knew it, that would be fine, but he instead is horrible and believes that he is good.  

When he finds out that the job he has accepted for the summer is more than he bargained for, and that was, in fact, was misrepresented to him, he is not strong enough to leave it.  Deciding to stick with it, however, he is also not capable of performing it with any commitment or will; in short, he does a lousy job, and keeps making excuses for the lousy job that he's doing. As an example, the guy has all kinds of free time, but can't seem to trouble himself to pick up the mail each day, causing the woman he's caring for to miss various social occasions to which she's been invited, which wouldn't be so bad if he had other things for her to do, but he's constantly complaining about how bored he is with her TV watching, and the fact that they have nothing to do.  He's simply not a likeable character, but neither is he mean enough to be decidedly unlikeable either, which makes him annoying and boring.  In short, he, like all of the other characters in the book, is completely lackluster.  

All that aside, if you're not feeling well, or need an easy read, this isn't so bad. I've read worse.