The Moviegoer

30 Friday Nov 2012

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IMG_0416Had it not been for the controversy stirred up by that small panel of judges who decided the winner of the 1962 National Book Award for fiction, I would have devoted most of my November reading time to another novel.  Those now classics that were heavily favored to win — J.D. Salinger’s Franny & Zooey and Joseph Heller’s Catch-22 — were bested by an almost unknown novelist, Walker Percy, who received the award for his slim debut novel, The Moviegoer.

I like this story behind the story.  I like it very much, in fact, since surprise keeps us on our toes and helps us not sleepwalk through life.  The latter, in fact, is one of the central themes of the book.  But in spite of the wake-up call offered between its covers, reading Walker Percy’s story sometimes left me limp with sadness.  I don’t know why; but the fault may lie with the lurking villains of despair and malaise that cast long shadows upon the story.  So with that, I’ll confess that it helps to read the novel on sunny days.  And too, that it can’t hurt to linger on that epigraph, from Søren Kierkegaard, rather than rush past it as I did the first time:

“….the specific character of despair is precisely this:  it is unaware of being despair.”

The back cover summarizes the story as a “portrait of a boyish New Orleans stockbroker wavering between ennui and the longing for redemption… on the eve of his thirtieth birthday.”  Inside the covers lies Percy’s beautiful prose and the deep thoughts he serves up like some trifle.  There are too many to share.  So I’ll move on by saying how I like that the story was a time capsule of the early sixties South.  It was interesting to contrast life then and now, and ponder places where we’ve changed and where we have not.  But it was meeting the unforgettable protagonist, Jack “Binx” Bollings, who narrates the tale in a colorful first-person voice, that hooked me from the first paragraph:

“This morning I got a note from my aunt asking me to come for lunch.  I know what this means.  Since I go there every Sunday for dinner and today is Wednesday, it can mean only one thing:  she wants to have one of her serious talks.  It will be extremely grave, either a piece of bad news about her stepdaughter Kate or else a serious talk about me, about the future and what I ought to do.  It is enough to scare the wits out of anyone, yet I confess I do not find the prospect altogether unpleasant.”

I’ve read that Percy admired Tolstoy.  He mentions War and Peace in the text.  And like Tolstoy, Percy possesses the courage and willingness to touch upon weighty matters affecting the human spirit.  Over and over, I learned of some loved one Jack had lost.  His brother on page one or two.  His father, a few more pages in.  Others, later on.   But physical death aside, Percy touches upon the illusory curing power of money and sex and drugs and religion and even war.   And since this story is set in the sixties South,  there was plenty of discrimination to bump up against:  Women and racial and not just between blacks and whites.  Sometimes, Binx stepped on my toes with his truth.  In one passage, it happened to my particular truth du jour:

“Once I thought of going into law or medicine or even pure science.  I even dreamed of doing something great.  But there is much to be said for giving up such grand ambitions and living the most ordinary life imaginable, a life without the old longings; selling stocks and bonds and mutual funds; quitting work at five o’clock like everyone else…”

I’ve been thinking a lot on how sweet life would be if I were not trying to realize that dream of fictionalizing my father’s story, who coincidentally, also happened to be a moviegoer by the name of Jack.  It would be easy to coast through days if my biggest challenge turned on the decision of what to fix for dinner.  How easy and lovely to while away hours in the garden or painting the exterior of my house or my dining room for the fifth time.  What joy to simply feast upon the artistic endeavors of others …while enjoying the taste of a few bonbons on my tongue.

Too bad the The Moviegoer is not a bonbon eating sort of book.  Instead, it’s the sort some keep company with every Lent.  Its existential subject is made for mulling over.  And its New Orleans setting into time makes it perfect for Lent, since the story takes place the week leading up to Mardi Gras.  But writing this hits me hard, since Lent is not about feasting and bonbons at all — and more about fasting in the wilderness and facing up to personal demons — for forty days and nights — which biblically speaking, translates to a helluva lot of time.

So do forgive me… if I leave those ends a little loose, to keep the noose from growing tight, in order to travel down a different line of thought.  Having spent a lot of time with this cagey old novel, I know that good ‘ole Binx would agree that it’s easier to be a spectator than a doer.  It’s much more enjoyable to read (or see) a good story than to try and write one.  And if my year boils down to any thoughts on writing, it’s that it takes a lot of desire and hard work to write fiction.  And that I’ve learned I lack what it takes in both departments.  Which is not all bad, since this year spent working on my father’s story has shattered whatever false illusions I once had about story-making.

I part ways with The Moviegoer with a lot to wonder over.  For one, if I can’t imagine writing at a publishable quality, how difficult was it for the newly published author Walker Percy to think his writing ‘good enough’ for some prestigious award.  His own publisher didn’t support his nomination; it came by unconventional channels, which a surprised Percy didn’t learn of until a few days after the ceremony.

I also wonder over those other ten finalists who lost that year.  How did they feel after coming so close — after all that hard work — with all those expectations of taking the prize?

I’d like to think that maybe a few of them pick up The Moviegoer to see what Percy had to say.  It’s not a bad notion to think upon… for some sunny day…or over forty days of some upcoming Lent.  If the idea grows to reality in my life, it would make my third time to read it.  I don’t mind saying that there’s something holy and complete about that number three that I’ve always found difficult to resist.  Much harder than a mere box of bonbons.

Anna Karenina (final four parts)

31 Wednesday Oct 2012

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It was my first time to read Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, but not in a Lena Dunham sort of way.

Today, having no polling stations to visit or curtains to pull back, I’ll cast a small line in the sand on top of a new ground rule: Rather than playing loose and twisting facts into saucy vote-catching soundbites  — that spin so out-of-control during hunting seasons for offices where the buck rarely stops anywhere any more — how about some good old-fashioned honesty?

For when it comes to sharing thoughts about anything important — Anna Karenina, included — nothing else will do.  So here it is:  I was just like one of those non-voting but imaginary Girls in the political endorsement ad that merited Ms. Dunham’s raised eyebrows.  Yes, upon finishing the book last week, I knew which way I wanted to vote.  But I couldn’t justify the reasons for it.  I wasn’t feeling it.  “No, I wasn’t ready.”

When words wouldn’t come last Thursday, I decided to first put some literary distance between me and Anna Karenina.  In short order, I consumed two contemporary novels:  First up was Kevin Powers highly acclaimed and National Book Award nominee, The Yellow Birds; the lesser second was Emma Staub’s Laura Lamont’s Life in Pictures.  Both possessed nice form and stylish uses of language.  But neither moved me.  The stories felt manufactured.  The characters, unfortunates souls that they were, felt flat and far removed from their own story lines.  In the end, the novels held no meaning for me, in spite of their glowing endorsements.

Anna Karenina, on the other hand, offered words that made time fly and other commitments negotiable.  I can’t count how often I nodded to thoughts expressed over one hundred and thirty years ago.  How well Tolstoy shadowed the messy human condition with his pen.  To be sure, the structure and the language were not the highlights, but instead, the invisible seams that held everything together.  Why for an old girl, this story still moved well, on and off the page.

But still — what was it about this old, not so unusual tale, that made it feel so alive and fresh?  That made me care about the characters, even when they were being terrible and so humanly self-centered?  I wish I knew.  But after reading the two books above and a third — Michael Chabon’s Telegraph Avenue — in the same space of time that I read Anna Karenina, I know that whatever Tolstoy possessed cannot be taught, even in the most prestigious of MFA programs.

All of this is not to say that Count Tolstoy didn’t write beautiful passages.  There are a number I could pluck from the text, to offer as souvenirs of reading pleasures.  I enjoyed the hunting scene where the point-of-view takes us into the mind of Levin’s conflict-ridden dog, who sensed the fowl before his human owner knew it was afoot.  (Chapter XII, Part Six).  And then there was that lovely contrast drawn between Levin’s two social calls during a single day in Moscow.  The obligatory first felt like hours, though counted in minutes by the clock; the second, its mirror image, revealed how sharing good company makes time pass as fast as life itself. (Chapters VI and X, Part Seven)

These I resist, and others too, for one that seems most appropriate in the closing days before elections are held:

“‘One vote could decide the whole thing, and you must be serious and consistent if you want to serve the common cause,’ Sergei Ivanovich concluded.

But Levin had forgotten that, and it was painful for him to see these good people, whom he respected, in such unpleasant, angry agitation.  To rid himself of that painful feeling, he went to the other room without waiting for the end of the debate.  No one was there except the servants at the buffet.  Seeing the servants busily wiping platters and setting out plates and glasses, seeing their calm, animated faces, Levin experienced a sudden feeling of relief, as if he had gone from a stinking room into the fresh air.”  (Chapter XXVIII, Part Six)

Oh, the truth of it!  Why it’s almost too good to be true.  And for that reason alone, I can’t imagine this first reading of Anna Karenina will be my last.  Nor, I trust, will voting in the upcoming election be less satisfying than my first.  But I wonder:  Are first times at doing anything really as good as some promote them to be?

In the tale end of things, it’s your vote.  It does count, but not in a Leo Tolstoy sort of way.

~~~

Much thanks to Arti for hosting this read-along.  For more reviews and reactions, visit Ripple Effects.

Anna Karenina (first four parts)

30 Sunday Sep 2012

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I can’t remember what we were talking about last July in class, when the thread of discussion turned to Tolstoy’s, Anna Karenina.

But two things I do recall.  One, that I was the only student, out of a class of twelve, to confess I’d never read it.  And two, how ready I became to read it, upon hearing my writing instructor’s passionate response:

  “Don’t deny yourself this pleasure.”

What else shall I say, dear reader, about my delicious splurge in reading this novel? The one I’ve had to set aside, with great gnashing of teeth, for a few days in order to satisfy other commitments.

One thing for sure, I’ve no interest in summarizing the narrative dream created by Count Tolstoy’s delightful tale.  I know my limits.  I cannot do it justice.

But I can’t say enough about how much I admire Tolstoy’s ability to transport me to late nineteenth century Russia, to make me feel as if I’m eavesdropping on everyday conversations on matters of the heart.  And not just love and marriage and divorce — but rather, it seems, anything and everything that could be of passionate concern and interest to 1870‘s nobility: The many references to then contemporary artists; the philosophical discussions and scholarly arguments about theology and communism; heated exchanges about women’s rights and education of the masses; the colorful mishmash of opinions on best agricultural practices in the face of a Russian labor force entrenched in old ways of doing things; even spiritual practices and devotion are touched upon.

Gosh, it just feels so relevant.  Is there truly nothing new under the Sun?

And the way he writes, in such intimate tones, as if he were telling the story to me alone.

And the writing skill he draws upon in using contrasts of threes, in order to paint readers a huge canvas of Russian life.  We have three couples, in various stages of marital bliss.  Or not.  Three vocations:  Gentlemen farmer, government bureaucrat and career military.  Three locales. Two cities, Moscow and Saint Petersburg.  And some slice of heaven somewhere far out in the rural farmlands where some of my favorite passages have laid.  LIke this one, told from Levin’s point-of-view:

“Spring is the time of plans and projects.  And, going out to the yard, Levin, like a tree in spring, not yet knowing where and how its young shoots and branches, still confined in swollen buds, will grow, did not himself know very well which parts of his beloved estate he would occupy himself with now, but felt that he was filled with the very best plan and projects.”   [page 153, Penguin Books, 2000, translation by Richard Pevear & Larissa Volokhonsky]

Oh, I understand Levin, well, because I too, am Levin.

So, now, as I put aside my novel, I console myself that I am no worse off than Anna Karenina’s original readers, who also were forced to do without, while waiting in between, for the next installment to be published. Why I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that they, like us, took time to share thoughts between reading installments.

And though it will be lovely someday to reread Anna, for now I feel darn lucky to be a new reader.  Because I can’t say what will happen next!

Why the whole being on the edge of my seat thing reminds me a lot of following Downton Abbey.

 — POP OVER TO RIPPLE EFFECTS TO READ ARTI’S REVIEW AND FOR LINKS THAT WILL CONNECT YOU TO REVIEWS OF OTHERS.