Another book you should read.

This time it's Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad. 


This novel---composed of a series of stand-alone stories related by character and interior depth---can and has been described as post-postmodern, something that came from decades of ultra-self-conscious text and literary stunt pilotry. Whereas postmodern fiction is mostly concerned with esoteric reference and characters as stand-ins for concepts and themes, Egan's novel revels in character, and offers a chance to relate to a strange cast of characters. It's readable, but doesn't neglect readers who demand a certain depth and intelligence from their fiction.

If the novel draws anything from postmodernism, it's a disregard for conventional structure. The stories all have an individual strength; they are rife with their own themes and symbols, and yet, they come together to make a powerful statement about aging, interaction with other people, and, surprisingly, subtly, love. There's a heartfelt humanism that permeates through each tale, as different as they all may be. The stories are written in first, second, and third person. Each works incredibly well, against all odds, even (especially, maybe) the story that's written as a power-point presentation. (Actually, that's what other reviewers call it. In the story, it's a teenage girl's "graphic journal," from a near-future that values visual content over verbal. As the narrator [director?] quotes school-endorsed slogans such as "Add a graphic, increase your traffic," and "A word-wall is a long haul.")

Sometimes the stories are absolutely heart-breaking, as in "Out of Body," about a disillusioned young man who drowns in a garbage-strewn river, and the final story, which takes place in 2020, and shows a world of ultra-connectivity, instant-access art, and pure hope. How beautiful and rare.

Couple books I'd like to write about:

Firstly, Benjamin Percy's The Wilding. Percy's the author of a couple books of short stories (The Language of Elk and Refresh, Refresh,) many of which deal with issues of what it means to be a man, what it means to be a boy growing into a man, what it means to be a man during a disastrous, fiendishly well-plotted, soul-baring hunting trip in central Oregon. Or so I've heard. I haven't read them all.

I'm certainly going to make that change after reading The Wilding, Percy's first novel, released by Graywolf Press late last month. I picked up the book after reading a smallish blurb about it in Esquire and, sort of shamefully, I was mostly just drawn to the cool cover. But hey, I've discovered some great books that way and this time was no exception.

The novel has received much comparison to good ol' Deliverance, which I'm not qualified to build upon simply because I've never read it. I just know the reference, in which one character hums the infamous banjo line from the film version, is hilarious and rather obvious. I dig it.

The book takes place in central Oregon (surprise) and deals with manhood (ditto.) The essential details how Justin Caves, a schoolteacher, and his son Graham go on a hunting trip with Justin's ur-manly father, Paul, before the wilderness is destroyed to make way for a shiny capitalism-symbolizing resort. The trip turns deadly as the hunters are stalked in the night by. . .something. There's a nifty and creepy side story involving Justin's disillusioned, unsatisfied wife, as well.

Okay, so. The main story line is certainly nothing to go googly-eyed over, and it follows through fairly predictably, but the writing is absolutely superb. Percy writes like a more energetic, literary Stephen King and he keeps your ears perked for what may be hiding in the shadows. Certainly a good nighttime alone-in-the-house book. I hear Percy just signed a book deal to put out a werewolf novel, and this makes me very happy, as he handles an extremely similar theme with expert wordsmithery with The Wilding.

Now for Book no.2: Kizuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. This book was published originally in 2005 and received tremendous acclaim; I'm ashamed of not having read it til this past week, when the movie edition of the novel was released.

This novel is gorgeous and heart-breaking. It burns through your mind like a slow ache. As you read the last paragraph, I defy you to not cry, or at least get that closing-throat feeling.

I'll give away the plot, as it's something most readers have encountered a dozen times before, probably in grade school: It takes place in a re-imagined late-'90's Britain, in which clones are raised as organ donors for transplants. Like The Wilding, the power comes not from the banal plot but from the immaculate writing and the loving handling of the themes.

The novel is told from the perspective of clone Kathy, a 31-year-old "carer," or someone who comforts the donor clones between donations, before they, too, begin donations. She tells the story of her and her friends' live prior to donating: they were raised in a privileged environment at Hailsham, a school for clone children. Eventually they graduate and get to experience the outside world somewhat, before becoming donors. It is within these moments the Ishiguro's perfect pacing and gentle narration really grabs for you heartstrings. The novel deals with love, death, innocence, and the loss thereof. It deals with all these things beautifully and tragically.

29 Sept 10

Just finished another couple paragraphs of the latest Hector, though tonight's not a great one for writing. I'm feeling a bit depressed and zonked, for some reason. I'll stop promising that it'll be finished anytime soon, it's just ending up being pretty long. I just got to the action and it's already got twice the word count of the first one. I don't know how the humor is. We'll see.

Humor writing has got to be one of the most difficult things in the world. Humor itself is so fickle; a joke I'll tell will sound brilliant til I start deconstructing a few minutes later, then it just strikes me as puerile. Obviously, Hector aims for the puerile, so I'm not too concerned there, the humor is easy and fun. But I get to wondering if I'm a one-trick pony, or that I'll become one, or that there's no trick at all; I'm just a jackass. I'm certainly not a funny person by nature. It worries me a lot, which is odd because I've never had intentions of writing humorous material. It just happens.

Well, that's all I got. Told ya, I'm rather dead-eyed tonight. Ta.

Sept 1st

I awoke this morning to the glorious sound of utter downpour. I forget how blessed the first September storm feels. I don't have a ton to share, except that school is taking up an obscene amount of my time, What the Hell is slowly coming along (it'll be a long one,) and "All Alone in An Empty House," by Lost in the Trees feels like a perfect song to me. Also, I may be going to see Band of Horses in KC next month. Nifty, eh?

Lodi, it's been awhile.

What a Summer; break-up, classes, assignments, new Arcade Fire, classes, no writing, getting back together, classes, Yann Martel, insane, dying, murderous sixty-pound Straight Talk customers. Classes. Possibility of Pell grant for classes, but we'll see.

Started a blog on Tumblr, which isn't that great, so I'll probably stick to good ol' Blogger. Or probably both, rather. New What the Hell, Hector coming up, soon, I promise.

Right now I'm at the end of week 2 of my three-week between semester break, watching the Simpsons on DVD, as is my habit during any sort of break, and am currently covered in mysterious insect bites that itch like a mother. Who, during pregnancy, can sometimes itch a lot, I heard somewhere. The bites are leaking some piss-colored liquid, and I wish they would go away.

That's all I got. Have things to do. Out.

Conflict resolution

Here I am, the last day of my week-long vacation, and I'm writing a blog. I've been here before; the thought of returning to the incredible malaise and undirected angst associated with my job after I've been away for a little bit puts me in the frame of mind to simply emote. I look back and see the void left by everything I wanted to accomplish but didn't, I look to the future and see only dread, and withdrawals from my newly acquired video game addiction. Summer classes that are going to take up so much of my reading/moping time. Seriously, I'm gonna be either in class or at work all the time. Balls.

So.

Here's what has happened on my vacation: Saturday was a day full of reading and hope for the rest of the vacation coupled with relationship-associated angst. I don't remember it a lot, except that I finished Lipsky's DFW thing. A girl named Jessica Pettengill was killed in a car accident Sunday morning. Though I never really "officially" met her, I knew of her somewhat through her family and mine; the Wheaton part of my family. I had also helped her with something at Wal-Mart about a week before the accident. Her death has kind of cast this pall over the past week. I think about it a lot. When I went to Joplin a couple days ago it was hard to drive in all that traffic. Traffic stresses me anyway, and I've always had some anxieties associated with driving, which I'll go into another time, but here's the point: this dread associated with this 17-year-old girl's death has nearly put my car-related anxieties over the edge. I make stupid decisions while driving. I pulled out in front of someone at a light, changed lanes without looking. It's an awareness issue, essentially. There's a new block in my perception while driving.

It's somewhat disconcerting.

So let's talk about something else. Stuff I wrote, like I said I would. Did I write something everyday? I didn't keep tabs like crazy, but I think so. I wrote poetry, snippets of songs. Mostly I worked on a single story that isn't quite done yet. It's at about 6-7 pages and is probably going to finally run at least twice that. I may post it, I'm not sure.

Songs. I've never written a full song. I need to, though. I can definitely see it happen.

Roaring seaward, and I go.

I seek out encouragement everywhere. I crave it: I'm mostly Irish by blood, a heritage renowned for producing literary talent; Geoffrey Chaucer was my great great great great great great grandpa, or something; I get good grades in English class, I grub for them, get weird, possibly disingenuous notes returned graded papers; I'm a Scorpio, just like Kurt Vonnegut, Zadie Smith, and Colson Whitehead. This can't be coincidence.

Occasionally I even write.

(I just started a . . .what? A sister blog, maybe? To this one? It's called What the hell, Hector? and it strives toward overbearing, outrageous entertainment. Much fun, new story coming this week.)

Who was it that said good literature is the product of a conflicted heart? Faulkner, I think it was.

Maybe I can find faith in that, as I've been rather conflicted lately.

So. I am on vacation. On each day of this week-long vacation I will complete some literary act. Or maybe the week will be one long literary act. Maybe it'll be performance art. Maybe I'll post blogs as I go; maybe I'll post them as one big blogsplat at the end of the week. I haven't decided yet.

Here's what I've read this past week: John Dies at the End, David Wong. Let the Great World Spin, Colum McCann. Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself, David Lipsky.

All good in their own ways. LtGWS especially, is heart-rending.

I realize that this blog is pretty much directionless; I'll work on that in the future.