Who are the "Best" Living American Writers?

The publication of Jonathan Franzen's new book, "Freedom" (about which I posted on 11/8/10, 11/11/10, and 11/13/10) brought about a flurry of articles and reviews speculating on whether Franzen is the new best American writer, now that Bellow, Updike, and others have died. Those who read my posts know I do not agree with this assessment. But the ensuing discussion did make me wonder who could be considered the "best" now. I don't really believe there can be one, or even several, "best" writers, because different great writers pursue different themes, employ different styles, and have different strengths. Also, who is the "best" of a generation may not become clear until all the writers of that generation have died and enough time has gone by to get a clearer perspective. But for fun, I looked around the internet to see which names are most often listed in the category of "best"; I found about 30 names that are consistently cited. Most often mentioned are Philip Roth, Don DeLillo, Toni Morrison, John Irving, Joyce Carol Oates, Marilynne Robinson, and Thomas Pynchon. Others frequently mentioned include Tom Wolfe, John Irving, Louise Erdrich, Lorrie Moore, Jane Smiley, Colson Whitehead, Jonathan Lethem, T.C. Boyle, Jonathan Safran Foer, Michael Chabon, Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, Jeffrey Eugenides, Jennifer Egan, Barbara Kingsolver, Nicole Krauss, and Jhumpa Lahiri. Readers, what do you think?

"The Widower's Tale"

The title of “The Widower’s Tale” (Pantheon, 2010), by Julia Glass (author of "Three Junes" and "I See You Everywhere"), is reminiscent of Chaucer's writings (but, don't worry, in modern English!), and the novel has the same stuffed-with-overflowing-humanity feeling as his "The Canterbury Tales" does. The Chaucerian theme of pilgrimage is also present: there are geographical, personal and political journeys aplenty. Further, there is plenty of plot, there are plenty of characters, and there is plenty of engagement with current events and social issues. There is much engagement with the question of whether the end justifies the means, when dealing with political and social issues. There is family, there is romance, there is illness, there is suspense, there is drama. There is nature, there is attachment to houses and land. There is pride, loneliness, betrayal, love, friendship, loyalty, caring, and fierce attachment. The reader is pulled into a full, busy life of a community full of intriguing and sometimes quirky characters. One of my favorite things about this book is the easy mixing of characters of various ages, from pre-school to post-retirement. Percy Darling, the 70-year-old widower of the title, lost his wife Poppy in a sad accident some thirty-plus years before, and lives a fairly solitary life in the big old farmhouse outside Boston that he and his late wife had fallen in love with and lived in as young marrieds. He has loving but guarded relationships with his two grown daughters, Clover and Trudy, and is closest to his grandson, Harvard undergraduate Robert. After all these years, he begins a tentative romance with the much younger Sarah, who has a four-year-old son, Rico. Other characters include Robert's politically activist roommate Turo; Ira, a teacher at the nursery school recently opened in the barn next to Percy's house; Ira's life partner Anthony, a lawyer; and Celestino, an immigrant gardener with a past romantic attachment that still haunts him. The stories of all of these characters, and several more, form strands that come together in a dramatic ending, followed by a low-key but healing postscript. We are left with the feeling that -- despite spectacularly bad behavior on the part of a couple of characters, and bad decisions on the part of some other characters -- most people are basically good, and want to do the right thing. This is a life-affirming and thoroughly enjoyable novel.

"Let's Take the Long Way Home"

"Let's Take the Long Way Home" (Random House, 1010), by Gail Caldwell, is subtitled "A Memoir of Friendship." It tells the gripping and touching story of Caldwell's close friendship with fellow writer Carolyn Knapp (author of "Drinking: A Love Story"). They met in the Boston area in midlife, initially drawn together by their mutual love of taking walks with their dogs in a beautiful wooded area. They immediately "clicked," and became inseparable; their commonalities included their writing, their dogs, their athletic endeavors, especially rowing on the Charles River, their shared status as recovering alcoholics, and their fierce independence. Sadly, a few years later, Knapp was diagnosed with and soon died of lung cancer. Caldwell, along with Knapp's fiance and a loyal group of friends, attended Knapp during her illness and deeply mourned her after her death. There are many novels and memoirs about family and about romantic relationships, but not enough about the depth and power of close friendships and the great support, joy, and profound enrichment of one's life that they can bring; this memoir provides a reminder of the enormous gift provided by close and sustaining friendships.

Writing is Hard

Yesterday (11/18/10) I posted “An Ode to Composition.” That post was heartfelt. But after a long, hard writing session later that day, working on an academic book project, I have to acknowledge the more difficult side of writing. My post on composition didn’t negate the difficulties of writing, but it certainly skipped over them. So let me say outright what most people know: writing is – for most of us – hard and even sometimes painful work. My colleagues and I spend much time discussing this: Why is something we want and love to do still so hard? Although I have been writing and publishing for many years now, and although at times and in some ways I enjoy and am excited by the process, I still find that large parts of it feel like climbing a steep mountain. It is also a satisfying process, and there are moments of joy. But I can't deny that creating something from nothing -- getting from an idea to a finished article, essay, or book -- is a huge undertaking. Figuring out what one wants to say, formulating a statement of that intent, finding and including the proper support, organizing the text into a clear, logical, and readable form, is all hard work. In addition, because of the emotional component of writing, especially writing that will be judged (e.g., articles and books for publication), the writing process is also full of tension, unease, and fear of failure. And then there are the ways we work against ourselves: procrastination, distraction, doubting ourselves, giving up. All of these have to be fought and overcome, in order to get back to the hard work of chipping away at a writing project until somehow, miraculously, if we work very hard and are very fortunate, it gets finished and into print.

An Ode to Composition

My university recently switched to an institutional version of gmail. One small but significant detail that I noticed and like about it is that for creating a new message, it asks us to “compose message.” I like the idea that it uses the word “compose,” which reminds us that all writing requires composing. Even if we only take a minute or a few seconds to think about how to word an email message or a text message, we are composing. We are putting words together in a particular way; we are framing our messages; we are thinking about our various audiences and purposes for our various messages. These are all the things that those of us who teach writing tell our students, which is why writing classes are often called composition classes. Often people think of writing as a skill, and in a way it is, but not in the way typing or programming or gardening are. Most of all, writing is thinking, and then composing those thoughts into effective combinations of words to form sentences, of sentences to form paragraphs, and of paragraphs to form letters, emails, memos, essays, chapters, and books. When I hear the word “compose,” I am also of course reminded of composers of music, who put together notes, sounds, and instructions about orchestration and about volume, in order to create glorious music. Both cases -- composing writings and composing music -- are marvelous, complex processes that create something new in the world, something unique and valuable. Obviously some writings, and some musical offerings, are better than others, but all are worth celebrating, even if only for the good intentions and the effort. And when the composing succeeds, what wonders are sent out into the world!

"By Nightfall"

“By Nightfall” (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2010), by Michael Cunningham (best known as the author of “The Hours”), is a strange, intriguing, and at times faintly creepy novel. It is set in New York City’s artsy Soho, and features a very odd trio of main characters. Peter owns an art gallery, loves his wife, and ponders the place of beauty in his life. His wife Rebecca edits a literary journal. Ethan, Rebecca’s much younger brother, breathtakingly beautiful but lacking direction, with a history of serious drug-taking, comes to stay with Peter and Rebecca for a while. Peter finds himself drawn to Ethan’s beauty and his resemblance to Rebecca when she was younger; this attraction, and Ethan’s casual duplicity and self-protection, combine to cause a major upheaval in the lives and marriage of Peter and Rebecca. Interwoven with this story are Peter’s meditations on art, beauty, love, aging, romance, and more. Cunningham captures the contradictory desires that often appear at mid-life: on the one hand, the enjoyment of a comfortable, happy, reasonably fulfilling life, and on the other hand, the yearning for something “big” and dramatic – a passionate romance, a huge, brave yet somehow effortless change in one’s life – to happen before it is too late. He understands the mid-life fear of having allowed life to pass one by, the fear of having “settled.” These are all serious issues, obviously, but Peter's sudden preoccupations with them seem rather superficial and even melodramatic. “By Nightfall” certainly keeps the reader’s attention, but there is something a little too facile, a little too self-indulgent in the character of Peter that put this particular reader off a bit.

On Reading More Male Writers Again

I just realized that the last three novels I read were all by male authors. That realization made me reflect on how I have fluctuated over the years regarding the gender of novelists whose works I have read. Like everyone else of my age (Baby Boomer), in school and in college days I read mainly male authors, with a few notable exceptions (Austen, Bronte, Eliot, Woolf, Cather, and a few more recent female novelists); they were the ones considered the “best”; they formed the “canon.” Not only were most of the novelists male, but most of their main characters were male as well. I, like most female readers then, had to do what some feminist literary critics later described as suspending reality in order to identify with the mostly male main characters of most novels. But along with the women’s movement of the late 1960s and the 1970s came a glorious increase in novels (and short stories and poetry and plays) by women writers being published. For the avid reader I was, this development was manna from heaven. For many years afterward, I read mostly works by women, with women as the main characters. Now that there are as many women writers being published as there are men (although there is still the issue of how seriously women writers and “women’s topics” are taken; see my posts of 8/26/10, 9/4/10, and 9/15/10), I have gradually, in the past few years, begun reading more novels by male writers again. This has not been a conscious decision, as much as a natural evening-out process. Also, I give much credit to the women’s movement, not only for the increased number of novels by women being published, but for the fact that the worlds of women and men are now less separate than they were, and therefore the subject matters and styles of novels by males and females are less different, more overlapping than they were. I still read many more women writers than men, but the proportions are less starkly different than they were for a long time.