Russell Hoban- Amaryllis Night and Day

Amaryllis Night and Day

Bloomsbury

Russell Hoban

2001

"The first time Peter Diggs saw Amaryllis she was at a bus stop where the street sign said Balsamic, although there was nothing vinegary about the place. The bus was unthinkably tall, made of yellow, orange and pink rice paper, lit from within like a Japanese lantern."

For those people who skimmed my written attempts at cataloging my unread book pile (The Glass Cabinet and The Darkened Wardrobe respectively), you may recall that this book was the great mystery of the lot. I don't remember buying at all, and my first memory of it is the bewilderment felt when spotting it amongst the ever-growing pile. A brief look at it completely explained why and where I bought it; its smoothly designed cover is covered with gushing plaudits from reputable newspaper reviewers and such, the back-cover blurb depicted a plot that appealed to my sensibilities (we'll get to that), and the inside front cover displayed the familiar sight of an Oxfam Bookshop penciled-in price tag. It would've been weird if I hadn't bought it.

Still though, the actual quality and specific style was somewhat of a mystery, as I'd never even heard of author Russell Hoban. Later research soothed my paranoid literary ego, showing me he's a bit of a cult, arty type who remains too niche to be a Penguin Modern Classics favourite. I tried to approach the fairly-short novel with an open mind, but, inevitably, it took barely any time at all for me to compare and contrast Hoban's writing with more familiar, well-established names to me, for better and for worse.  

Amaryllis Night and Day has a fairly straightforward plot, at least to begin with. Narrated in the first-person by artist and lecturer Peter Diggs, Hoban delves into things immediately; in the opening pages Peter has an immensely strange and touching dream starring an alluring mystery woman on a rice paper bus. Then, quite naturally, he meets her in the real world, and discovers that this was no coincidence; Amaryllis (for that is her name), has the mysterious ability to connect with certain other people in the dreamworld, to bring them in to intentionally constructed dreams and visit theirs, and Peter has the same ability. There's no real fantastical or science fiction type of explanation for this, it's high-concept magical realism existing for the sake of the story and style, and the book is much better for this. At its core it's a love-story.

Russell Hoban, reading this review,

So, what did I and what didn't I like about this book? The answers to both are mostly the same; Amaryllis Night and Day is a very ambitious attempt at creating an ethereal postmodern piece of written art, and all credit must go to the author for his ambition. As a result though, it was completely impossible for me to not compare this book and author with previously-read examples of similarly themed and stylised stories. Hoban smartly keeps the book short, with very short individual chapters that add to the theme; the short and mysterious events and consistently self-analytical narration helps to intentionally blur the lines of the dream world and the real, to great effect. I found myself compelled by the tone and the constant symbolism, and finished the book rather quickly. 

The key problems which unfortunately so far prevent me from lauding Russell Hoban's writing in the same way I do for Haruki Murakami and Milan Kundera (the two authors whose names came to mind first when looking at what Hoban hoped to achieve) were his characterisation and the grounding of those characters in the real world. Hoban constantly makes the effort to show how artistic and knowledgeable of art his characters are, filling it with references at every opportunity. Not by nature a bad thing, as Murakami has written in a similar style in books like Kafka on the Shore throughout his career to great success. Unfortunately here it feels unnatural and annoying. As a basis for grounding the characters in some sort of realism it doesn't work, and persists throughout the novel to the extent at where I eventually didn't really care for the fate of the characters, which is a bit of a problem for a love story. 

But I really don't want to give this book a bad review because its total sum is enough to dismiss the negatives I found. I would be happy to read another Russell Hoban novel to try and get a fuller grasp of his ambitions, but even if that never happens this novel will still stick out in my memory as a distinctive, quirky attempt at artistic greatness that, while it never fully achieves, Amaryllis Night and Day constantly flirts with.

Jon Ronson- The Men Who Stare At Goats

The Men Who Stare At Goats

Picador

Jon Ronson

2004

“Most goat-related military activity is still highly classified.”

I'm back, feeling strangely guilty about the fact I haven't published anything on my blog that nobody reads in about ten days, which is odd when I remember I used to go months and months without writing anything. Maybe one of the key goals of this blog in the first place, trying to increase my awful writing productivity, is finally getting there. Unfortunately this probably isn't going to be a very long one, simply because there isn't much I found interesting about The Men Who Stare At Goats. I'm not going to completely attack it, but it's barely any more than a two star book thanks to fundamental problems with the set up. Hey look, one paragraph down.

I picked this book up off the shelf at the Oxfam charity book shop (my favourite bookstore in the world) based on my desire to put a bit more non-fiction in my life, and also because I'd seen the loosely-adapted film version (starring George Clooney, Kevin Spacey, Jeff Bridges and Ewan McGregor, which is pretty impressive) a few years ago. Although I didn't particularly enjoy it, the premise lodged itself in my brain rather solidly. Respected journalist and non-fiction writer Jon Ronson is one of many to use the period following 9/11 as book material, but rather than settling on the typically serious tone of 'Bush is bad, mmkay', looks at the far more esoterical, quirky, and alternative-reader friendly subject of paranormal abilities, and their application within the US military. Let me quickly say now that this book is probably a conspiracy theorist's dream.

Ronson approaches the task through numerous, numerous interviews with a wide variety of people (many of whom seemed interchangeable to me), presented presumably in a chronological fashion. These interviews form the basis for essentially everything Ronson uncovers and concludes from his studies, and offer him further research ammunition to continue with. The majority of everything he discusses originates from the mind of a man named Jim Channon, who, in the 1960's, attempted to convince his military superiors to adopt and experiment with strange New Age concepts, with the ultimate fantastical goal of doing amazing things like walking through walls or, as in the title, killing goats by looking at them. Ronson follows the progression of his ideas, their apparent final rejection, and then their theorised (by Ronson) rebirth in the midst of the second gulf war.

A goat, yesterday.

All of this as a premise sounds like a great idea for a book, but in reality there are a couple of glaring flaws that heavily damaged my enjoyment of it. Ronson is a good writer, writing in that recognisable, newspaper journalist style that I encountered in War Reporting for Cowards, for example. He presents himself as a likable, incongruous reporter conversing with some equally likable but most likely insane subjects, but does so in such a fashion as to resemble a work of fiction. His characters and conversations are so unrealistically charismatic and quirky that it's difficult to fully invest in what they're saying. This, mind you, wouldn't be so much of a problem by itself if it weren't for the second major flaw in the book; it's virtually all second hand storytelling. Every crazy story, every over the top character and every cynical presentation of the authorities is entirely derived from (admittedly extended) conversations with crazy people. 

I think Ronson himself recognises this, which is why he chose the more dramatic, cinematic conversation style, and also why he tries very, very hard to make his own connection between events and ideas. This is fair enough, and logically done, but again a lack of definitive proof or even realistic evidence means that it all essentially means nothing. Earlier on in the book I found his collection of stories and personalities interesting and appealing, full of charisma and promises of further revelations, but as the book went on I became more and more disillusioned by the lack of real progress. Three quarters of the way through I actually wanted to give up, but my commitment to this bottom-rung blog of randomness pulled me through. Plus, Jon Ronson is a legitimately talented writer who had a good idea for a book, but I can only imagine that researching this topic was a fool's errand. Even if you do assume that the things he talks about are true, it was obviously going to be practically impossible for him to gather secret evidence presumably kept secret by one of the most powerful organisations in the world. I wouldn't rule out reading something else by Ronson, but I'm not in any rush.

Charles Bukowski- Ham on Rye

Ham on Rye

Canongate

 Charles Bukowski

1982

Other Bukowski Reviews; Post Office - Factotum - Women - Ham on Rye - Tales of Ordinary Madness - Notes of a Dirty Old Man

“The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little more off you, until there was nothing left. At the age of 25 most people were finished. A whole goddamned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidate who reminded them most of themselves.”

It's taken me longer to realise this than it really should have, but Chuck Bukowski is an absolute five-star master of prose fiction, in my mind equal to the likes of Joseph Conrad, George Orwell and (my pick for his most similarly talented contemporary) Kurt Vonnegut. I should have recognised this earlier, having first read his most famous work, Post Office, but, in my defense Bukowki's style is resolutely inapproachable, disgustingly grimy and in-your-face at every opportunity. I like to think it was a tough nut to crack.

Ham on Rye, his fourth novel, again brings back semi-autobiographical lead character Henry Chinaski. In  prior novels the reader viewed the adventures of Chinaski as a grown man, struggling with the vices of life in the underbelly of the big city. Heavily stylistic, those books were full of potentially depressing, soul-destroying insight into the world from the lowest point of view possible, but personally I felt that Bukowski's unmistakable prose style and the incessant deluge of down-and-out plot developments made it hard to look past the jet black humour and see a more rounded character beyond. Ham on Rye is the novel that addresses that, and as a result both stands out as a piece of individual brilliance while putting the character as a whole into a larger context.

Reading this novel about the youth and young manhood of Chinaski had two consecutive effects for this reader. The first, from a critical standpoint, was that Bukowski manages to make the twisted, antisocial and incredibly bitter, but perhaps two-dimensional drinker of his early works make perfect sense in this fuller context. The second, very powerful effect this had for me was to remove a large portion of the black humorous tone and replace it with an alternative, recognisable realism. This is, to be somewhat cliche, an origin story. Much of it is depressing or disgusting when you stop to think about it for a moment; Henry's parents are abusive, mentally and physically, and through their fearful efforts to control a child of changing times and turn him into a model slave, they create a monster.

Bukowski or Chinaski?

Bukowski charts the growth of Chinaski in a fairly organised manner, smoothly charting the key incidents of his life through junior high school up until his first employment. As a piece of character writing it is incredible, as Chinaski constantly grows with his experiences to become more intelligent and self-aware with age, but with that also more bitter and twisted. With his blunt, deceptively simple style, Bukowski describes key character-developing moments in Chinaski's life, many of them completely obscene; heavily focusing on sex, violence and alcohol, as Chinaski goes through perhaps the worst puberty imaginable. Ostracised and abused, the growth of Chinaski into a deadbeat beer-dependent creature is remarkable, and surely must be uncomfortable reading for those of a lighter disposition. The keys to the consistent, enveloping tone are the unspoken blurred lines between real life and fantasy. I haven't read a Bukowski biography, something I think made the effect stronger, as the outlying concept that this life was, to some extent, a real one projected by the author into this version helps empower the novel.

Though this book is nasty and downbeat to the extent where I wouldn't recommend it to everyone, it is a remarkable piece of art. Bukowki's mastery of his own particular style has been honed to perfection, and the depth of character work he puts into Ham on Rye results in one of the finest novels I've read; another negative take on the American dream following Fitzgerald, Burroughs, Vonnegut and the like, joining them in the company of the culture's greatest contributors.

Jay McInerney- Bright Lights, Big City

Bright Lights, Big City

Bloomsbury

 Jay McInerney

1984

“You have friends who actually care about you and speak the language of the inner self. You have avoided them of late. Your soul is as disheveled as your apartment, and until you can clean it up a little you don't want to invite anyone inside.”

The seminal, decade-defining short novel Bright Lights, Big City was something I knew almost absolutely nothing about at the time of purchase, other than it was cheap (from HMV, in their obligatory 'look how cool and educated we are in an edgy way' book corner) and had plenty of quotes on the back designed to sell this book as a seminal, decade-defining short novel that's absolutely definitely necessary for any serious (yet edgy) novel reader. I totally bought that, so I bought it. Luckily, in the case of this book there was perfect truth in advertising, leaving me with a story composed with plenty of style and a good amount of substance.

The write the book entirely in the second person, as illustrated in the italicised quote above. For me specifically, it could easily have been a negative deal-breaker. After all, I'm someone who hates things like intentionally bad grammar (Cormac McCarthy, I'm looking at you) and other such postmodern text structure, and can rarely ever deal with present-tense text (which this is) because it's generally just stupid. As I began reading, I had serious doubts as to whether I'd be able to persevere, but somehow the second person perspective combined with the tense to make something much more readable, to the extent it also combined with the subject matter (and short length of the novel) to actually make the whole experience far more enjoyable.

 

Obligatory black and white author photo.

The main plot isn't ground-breaking or inspiring in terms of unexpected twists or ideas, instead it feels very familiar. The unnamed narrator (well, unless you count 'You' as a name) is an aspiring writer and downbeat editor living in Manhattan in the then-present, and who spends much of his time hoovering up an obscene amount of cocaine. McInerney throws the reader into the deep end in this regard, beginning the book with a coked-up narrator painting the town red and freaking out bystanders at some nothing-club. At first I didn't know what to make of it; there's a cliched feel to it, inspired as it probably was by alt-classics like Burroughs' Naked Lunch and Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The cocaine speciality offers a specific buzz to the narration, but it hardly stood out to me; it's good, well-constructed prose, but considering the company it aims for doesn't improve upon it; though that shouldn't be considered an insult with such revered company.

As the plot developed, McInerney slowly introduces the reader to more and more aspects of the narrator's past, and it was through the careful pacing and believable introspection that I really began to enjoy Bright Lights and appreciate it among the pantheon of notable American literature. The drug-fueled, fast-paced and abrupt sentences are reminiscent of Charles Bukowski, but the distinct presentation made me think of the tones of Kurt Vonnegut (specifically Slaughterhouse Five, for some reason). The feel of the city, though, was, thanks to my pop culture favourites, far more familiar to me than earlier authors. The increasing helplessness and panic of the narrator feels believable and constrictive, and when the psychological reasoning offered by insights into his past come to light, Bright Lights, Big City comes full-circle from the almost unintelligible ramblings of the opening chapter to a similar ending powered by a more complex character study.

I have to heartily recommend this novel to explorers of 20th century US fiction, especially if you like Bukowksi, Pynchon, or Palahniuk (Fight Club seems heavily influenced by this regarding style and mood). It's brevity ensures the style doesn't grate, but there's plenty of substance to contemplate too. I'll check out more from McInerney in the future,