Feeling Vindicated by Francine Prose on "The Goldfinch"

Occasionally I write here about books I DIDN’T read, or didn't finish. One of these books not finished, which I wrote about here on 11/10/13, was Donna Tartt’s new novel, “The Goldfinch.” It has gotten very good reviews; it is also a bestseller. As I said in that earlier post, I just don’t think Tartt is a particularly good writer, I just couldn’t get interested in this novel, and the thought of reading all 700-plus pages was too much for me. But I wondered if it was “just me” who felt this way. So I was pleased to read the respected author and critic Francine Prose’s scathing review of “The Goldfinch” in the New York Review (1/9/14); at last, someone who wasn’t raving about the novel! Prose decries the frequent labeling of this sprawling novel as “Dickensian,” pointing out that it lacks Dickens’ “originality, his intelligence, his witty and precise descriptions, the depth and breadth of his powers of observation, his cadenced, graceful language…” Later in the review, Prose says that “The Goldfinch” contains many passages that are “bombastic, overwritten, marred by baffling turns of phrase, metaphor and similes that falter…” She also says that the novel is full of clichés and “careless and pedestrian language.” I feel somewhat vindicated in my opinion about Tartt’s writing, not only in this novel but in the two earlier ones. Prose wonders why so many people she knew or met were so enthusiastic about "The Goldfinch"; I appreciate her saying in print what I have been thinking.

"The Tortilla Curtain," by T. Coraghessan Boyle

There is something special about an author’s reading her or his own work on audio. I just listened to T. Coraghessan Boyle (also known as T. C. Boyle) read his novel “The Tortilla Curtain” on CD (Blackstone Audio 2006; originally published 1995). It tells the stories of two couples in a hilly, woodsy suburban area of Los Angeles. One couple is Delaney and Kyra, a well-off, liberal, comfortable, somewhat self-congratulatory couple with a nice house in a gated area. The other is an undocumented couple from Mexico, Candido and his very young, pregnant wife America, who live in various lean-tos in a wooded area near the community where the other couple lives. The novel alternates between their two stories, and their lives intersect a couple of times, always problematically. The larger story is one of how communities deal with change, especially, in this case, the rising number of undocumented Mexican workers (or, often, would-be workers desperate for jobs). The workers suffer from poverty, prejudice, fear, the weather, and more. The wealthier families think of themselves as liberal, but gradually become more intolerant and angrier about the “invasion” of “their” territory. It is sad and even horrifying to see the increasing clashes, the increasing siege mentality, and the increasing willingness by the wealthier group to do anything to drive the outsiders out. This is of course not just a story of this particular community, but of many communities in the United States, and of the latest bumpy stage in the story of migration to the U.S. Boyle shows us the humanity of, and the weaknesses of, all the characters, and shows us all sides of the issue. The telling of the story is perhaps a bit schematic, but very powerful, as well as moving and frightening. Mercifully, there is a note of grace in the midst of crisis at the end of the novel, and readers will be grateful for it. But this moment of grace cannot cancel out the pain, suffering, confusion, and strife we have seen throughout the novel.

"The Boy Detective: A New York Childhood," by Roger Rosenblatt

I first started reading Roger Rosenblatt’s essays, commentaries, and reviews many, many years ago when I still read The New Republic, before it became too conservative for me. When he left that magazine, I wrote him a note of thanks and appreciation for his wonderful writing over the years, and he was kind enough to write a friendly note thanking me for mine. I treasured that note for many years, although I must admit I no longer know where it is, or even if I still have it. After that, I only saw his work occasionally, although I understand he has been a commentator on TV. Fast forward to a few years ago, when I read “Making Toast,” his painful but beautifully written memoir about his adult daughter’s death and about how the family pulled together to cope. He and his wife moved in with his son-in-law to help take care of their young grandchildren. Now fast forward again, to December 2013, when I was Christmas shopping in one of my favorite independent bookstores, Books, Inc., in San Francisco. One of the people working there noticed I was buying a couple of books about New York, and recommended Rosenblatt’s new book, “The Boy Detective: A New York Childhood” (Ecco/HarperCollins, 2013), which she raved about. We started talking about Rosenblatt, and I told her my story about the note; such conversations are one of the pleasures of shopping in independent bookstores. So I bought the book and read it. The premise of the book is that the author takes a walk around today’s New York, remembering his childhood there, and in particular how he used to imagine himself a detective back then. This organizing principle allows Rosenblatt to observe various buildings and areas in present-day New York, meanwhile remembering the past and reflecting on the history and changes. The result is sometimes endearing, often informative, and, truth be told, sometimes a bit confusing and even tedious as he jumps from topic to topic. He includes references to history, philosophy, literature, his own life events, and more. This book will appeal to those who have appreciated Rosenblatt’s work through the years, as well as to dedicated long time New Yorkers. For others, it will perhaps be less engaging. I have to note, though, that despite this last remark, I found plenty to like in the book, and continue in admiration of this thinker/writer/critic.

"Hyperbole and a Half," by Allie Brosh

My friend M. V. and her daughter L. both really enjoyed (although with reservations) the very quirky “Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened” (Simon & Schuster, 2013), by Allie Brosh, so I had to take a look at it. The book, based on Brosh's autobiographical/confessional blog of the same name, consists of cartoonlike drawings of the author, her dogs, a very few other characters, and some scenes in and near her house, with a bit of text on each page. The author is represented by a sort of odd blob with bugged eyes, a wide mouth, a yellow protrusion from the back of her head, a red garment, and stick-like arms out of a child’s drawing. Curiously, the other human characters and even the author’s two dogs are drawn in much more detail, although still cartoonlike. The book is divided into -- what? Chapters? Stories? Vignettes? Each one -- well, almost each one -- is funny, eccentric, terse, and often sad. The author either is, or pretends to be, extremely candid about her own problems and failings. One major strand in the book is stories about the dogs. Another -- one that I relate to -- is stories about the author’s fighting her tendency to procrastinate. The most painful “stories” are about her bout(s) of depression. This is clearly a very original book, one that is hard to classify. I think it requires a particular -- perhaps acquired -- taste, or a particular sense of humor, to truly appreciate it. In other words, if you pick it up, you will likely either love it or think “?????!!!!!” I went back and forth between those two reactions.

Men We Reaped: A Memoir," by Jesmyn Ward

When I heard author Jesmyn Ward being interviewed on the radio about her new book, “Men We Reaped: A Memoir” (Bloomsbury, 2013), I thought it must be an unbearably sad book to read. It tells the story of five young men in her life, including her brother, in the small town, poor area of Mississippi where she grew up, who died very early of accidents, drugs, or suicide. I almost didn’t read it because of the painful topic, but something about the power of the story and her engaging voice made me read it anyway. The book is in fact unbearably sad to read, as I predicted. But it is also a moving tribute to these young men and to their energy, their life force, their love of and caring for their families and friends, and the potential they had that was obstructed at every turn in a world where poor young black men have so little opportunity. This book is Ward’s way of remembering these young men, and making sure others know them and their stories. Further, it is her tribute to her home community, to her extended family, and to the siblings, cousins, and friends she grew up with. Although she went to college and graduate school at prestigious universities far away from her home, she always went home for vacations and breaks, and now as an accomplished published writer and professor, she again lives in her home town. This is a beautifully written and moving memoir, as well as an anguished and powerful indictment of racial inequality in the United States. [On another note: Today is the four-year anniversary of this blog.]

"Inside," by Alix Ohlin

“Inside” (Knopf, 2012), a novel by Alix Ohlin, tells the interlocking stories of the four main characters in alternating chapters. We soon see how the stories connect. Grace and her ex-husband Mitch are therapists; Annie is Grace’s patient; Tug is a man in serious emotional trouble whom Grace helps and then falls in love with. The story takes place in Montreal, New York, Los Angeles, and Rwanda, among other locales. The characters are interesting, and their stories somewhat compelling. This book is the kind that one -- or at least this reader -- mildly enjoys and keeps reading, but then doesn’t remember much about after it is finished. I know this is a lukewarm recommendation, but it is the best I can give for this perfectly-fine-but-nothing-special (in my opinion) novel.

"Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots," by Jessica Soffer

Jessica Soffer’s novel, “Tomorrow There Will be Apricots” (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2013), is the bittersweet story of how two lonely people in New York connect. One is a young teenager, Lorca, whose mother, a chef, is (unaccountably, it seems, although there are mentions of her own unhappy childhood) insensitive and neglectful; Lorca spends much of her time planning ways to get her mother’s attention and make her happy. The other is an older woman, Victoria, former co-owner and chef at a Middle Eastern restaurant, recently widowed, who can’t stop thinking about the baby she gave up for adoption some 40 years before. What draws the two together, besides their loneliness, is food; both are natural cooks, and both love to prepare it and serve it to others. The novel's descriptions of the intriguing, delicious, and comforting food, and its meaning to the main characters, are bonus sources of enjoyment for readers. Both of these characters are damaged, but they both have compelling and engaging personalities, they both still have hope, and they both are fortunate to have others in their lives who care about them. During the course of the novel’s main events, over a period of a couple of weeks, the story goes back in time to reveal the histories of the characters; then during the main events portrayed in the novel, new secrets are revealed. The novel is both touching and heartbreaking, but also optimistic about the power of human connections. This is a book I picked up in the library, without having read any reviews, or even having heard of the author; I am glad I did.