But what’s he going on about? I. isn’t his initial ("I am not I.," he’s tempted to say, but that’s not the person he’s writing this in
… is the sort of meta talk talk talk he’s got going on in this chapter – in all the chapters, really – a woman accuses him of nearly running her over, in a matter-of-fact sort of way, and he retreats into his head, dissecting the incident, exploring all the angles of the incident from multiple points of view. He questions her version, he questions his version; he questions the notion that there can be one version. In another chapter, he turns the situation on its head, right in the first graf –
He tries to put himself in her position. She asked that a number of times: "Try. Then maybe you’ll change how you treat me." So, in his mind he has her condition. Confined to a wheelchair, has to be helped in and out of bed and often fed.
The stories/chapters in this book connect together slowly, as you read through – there’s no instant snap of connection, as with David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, where you suddenly get it. Dixon gives you bits and pieces, but it can be like trying to put together a puzzle where some of the pieces are reversed – light where it should be dark – and though you know what the premise is (says it right on the back: "I. is about a man raising two young daughters while caring for his wife, victim of a debilitating disease, her health and mobility worsening monthly.") you get these reversals, these stories about stories that are ancillary to the "main storyline" – which seems to be the point with I. The above quote is from the "The Switch" chapter, which is a prime example – he imagines everything reversed, and it’s a fantastic look at everything he is not as a caregiver; you get nuances on top of nuances, and yet it’s written in plain prose. The devil is in the details, but it’s not the usual sort of descriptive details – setting, emotional states, etc. – it’s the details of everyday life, the stuff other writers don’t include.
It’s a fantastic read.
I’m realizing this post is less about the "Author" chapter than I intended, but I’ll come back to that later.
There – I said it, and I’m glad. All in all, though, this is a good book. Two narratives that seem quite different eventually connect – no surprise there, but it is interesting how he explores the workings of the mind. (The writeup on the back cover is a little bit on the horrid side – honestly, "cyberpunk"? – and it gets worse from there.) You see him touching on some of the themes of isolation and searching for meaning that he develops further in – well, most of his work. Like a teenage Murakami effort.
It is indeed true that many women — myself included — can viscerally identify with the problems chick-lit heroines face. I will never again sign up to deliver snacks to my son’s school without thinking ruefully of Allison Pearson’s "I Don’t Know How She Does It," in which would-be mistress of the universe Kate Reddy finds herself smashing in store-bought mince pies in the middle of the night to make them look homemade. Nonetheless, the cry that chick lit deals with real women’s concerns in a relatable way while literary fiction spins off into greater degrees of irrelevance is somewhat disingenuous.First, it is not as though literary fiction doesn’t — at least some of the time — trawl the same terrain as chick lit, though Weiner is not wrong when she says the stories tend to not end as happily. But perhaps more important, the formula of chick lit itself — with its comedic farce and fantasy solutions to real-life problems — ultimately undercuts its claim to social relevance. Super-consumer Becky of Sophie Kinsella’s "Shopaholic" series never files for bankruptcy protection. Kate Reddy quits her job and moves to the country with her family only to find — lo and behold — a small toy factory in need of saving. Deus ex machina and coincidence reign in the world of modern gal fiction.
OLEN: What, if anything, is wrong with chick lit?
MERRICK: We all need light reading, light entertainment from time to time–I’m certainly not against that. You will see me at the gym with Us Weekly now and then. But there is an amazing flourishing of women literary writers at the moment that is being obscured by a huge pile of pink books with purses and shoes on the cover. Women readers are having a hard time finding substantive reading material because of the dominance of these narratives.
Your work is rich with highly distinctive dialogue—your characters talk in voices quite similar to one another, and to that of your narrators. Why do they speak this way? Do you worry that switching from unique voice to unique voice might break the flow of your narratives? Or do you mean to show that all characterizations are reflections as much of the author as of the characters themselves?
I don’t agree that my characters talk in voices quite similar to one another. I try to make each voice distinct. If I haven’t done that, then I’ve failed in a way. My women don’t talk like my men and my men talk differently from one another. I have a sense, when I’m writing, of what each character is and the way he or she speaks, and I try to get that on the page. Certainly, all my characters are not reflections of the author. Where’d you get that? The voice of my characters is not mine.
I sent out the following e-mail this morning to a number of lit-blog operators that I frequent:
Hi. I run the tiny litblog Condalmo. In the past, I’ve wondered on the site about the apparent lack of interest these days from the general reading public in the short story form. Given the much-documented shorter attention span of Americans today, as compared to pretty much any time in the past, wouldn’t it make sense that the short story form would be the ascendant medium through which people read? Why are short story collections the awkward little brothers of novels, both on the review pages and among readers?
So, given my own lack of insight, I decided to pick some of the blogs I read most often and write to you to get your thoughts on the matter. I’ll post them on my own site and hopefully get some discussion going around the matter. Any time you could spare to write a bit on the issue would be greatly appreciated, and of course I know time is hard to come by, so I thank you in advance for any you can spare.
I’ll post the responses here; I also welcome any thoughts from readers – e-mail me at the address found on the right. Thanks.
An old man sits in a room, with a single door and window, a bed, a desk and a chair. Each day he awakes with no memory, unsure of whether or not he is locked into the room. Attached to the few objects around him are one-word, hand-written, labels and on the desk is a series of vaguely familiar black-and-white photographs and four piles of paper. Then a middle-aged woman called Anna enters and talks of pills and treatment, but also of love and promises. Who is this Mr Blank, and what is his fate? What does Anna represent from his past – and will he have enough time to ever make sense of the clues that arise? After the huge success of "The Brooklyn Follies", "Travels in the Scriptorium" sees Auster return to more metaphysical territory. A dark puzzle, and a game that implicates both reader and writer alike, it is an ingenious exploration of language, responsibility and the passage of time.
"Paul Auster’s next novel, Travels in the Scriptorium, is a coming back to characters and situations of Auster’s past books in a quite confusing way. Travels in the Scriptorium is the title of the second novel of Martin Frost, the main character of The Inner Life of Martin Frost; If you remember, The Inner Life… is one of the movies filmed by Hector Mann and the only one that David and Alma watch at the end of the novel ‘The Book of Illusions’. It is as well the title of one of Mann’s movies that burn into the fire before David can see it. According to one south-american newspaper, El Mercurio, Auster said: "I finished a small book around a month ago, maybe the strangest novel I ever written. The characters are characters of my last books that are coming back. I often ask myself what happens to them after the novel ends."
Hot on the heels of Pynchon preview mania, Amazon UK offers up this glimpse of HM’s next novel, apparently arriving around June 7 of next year:
The midnight hour approaches in almost empty all-night diner. Mari sips her coffee and glances up from a book as a young man, a musician, intrudes on her solitude. Both have missed the last train home. The musician has plans to rehearse with his jazz band all night, Mari is equally unconcerned and content to read, smoke and drink coffee until dawn. They realize they’ve been acquainted through Eri, Mari’s beautiful sister. The musician soon leaves with a promise to return before dawn. Shortly afterwards Mari will be interrupted a second time by a girl from the Alphaville hotel; a Chinese prostitute has been hurt by a client, the girl has heard Mari speaks fluent Chinese requests her help. Meanwhile, Eri is at home and sleeps a deep, heavy sleep that is "too perfect, too pure" to be normal; pulse and respiration at the lowest required level. She has been in this soporfic state for two months; Eri has become the classic myth – a sleeping beauty. But tonight as the digital clock displays 00:00 a faint electrical crackle is perceptible, a hint of life flickers across the TV screen, though the television’s plug has been pulled. Murakami, acclaimed master of the surreal, returns with a stunning new novel, where the familiar can become unfamiliar after midnight, even to those that thrive in small hours. With "After Dark" we journey beyond the twilight. Strange nocturnal happenings, or a trick of the night?
Actual synopsis, or a trick of the night?
David Mitchell, Ander Monson, Lauren Redniss, W.S. Di Piero, Laurie Sheck, Andrey Platonov, Olga Zondberg, Christopher Sorrentino, Nam Le, Mary Mattingly, Amy Leach, Maile Chapman, Bin Ramke, Corinna Vallianatos, Srikanth Reddy, Cesar Vallejo, and more. On: The Ziegfeld Follies, sicarios en Medellin, the dramatic life of the sea cucumber, motherhood, marriage, murder, Kurt Waldheim, Migraine Mike, a shipwreck, a Macedonian officer, a Russian home for a queen bee, and, finally, the death of death.