As Good As It Gets: The Four Major Thomas Mann Novels in the Recent John E. Woods Translations (Buddenbrooks, The Magic Mountain, Doctor Faustus, Joseph & His Brothers)

This charming Mann

Buddenbrooks (1901)

Brav-effin’-oh, young Mann — I’m pretty sure this breaks the world record for precocious achievement of towering literary artistry. Published in 1901 when dude was like 26 years old. Must’ve taken a couple years to write. Can’t imagine a current undergrad publishing something like this in a few years. But I didn’t actually read Mann’s text — Mann comes to me filtered through John E. Woods’s sensibility and super-steady, elastic, attentive prose style. The duo is as good as it gets.

Of the four “major” Mann novels (plus the famous novella Death in Venice, which I read 10 years ago translated by someone other than Woods or Michael Henry Heim — we should really all write to Woods and ask him to translate the “stories of three decades”), I’d rank this ahead of neck-and-neck third and fourth place finishers Doctor Faustus and The Magic Mountain, but behind the monumental achievement of Joseph and His Brothers, the importance/impact of which deepens in my mind now that a year or so has passed since I read it.

I love the thematic overlap among these novels. In Buddenbrooks, there’s the sort of transgenerational family saga he returns to thirty years later in Joseph and His Brothers, specializing in sibling conflict; Hanno and his mother’s musical obsession echoes Doctor Faustus in advance — the super-descriptive pages toward the very end relaying young Johann’s improvisation on piano pulled out the prose stops, suggesting the confounded turbulence of youth, including in Hanno’s case the suggestion of a desire to get with his cool friend Kai (I’m sure Mann’s novels have launched hundreds of dissertations exploring his portraits of restrained sexuality); there’s illness as in The Magic Mountain, particularly Christian’s case. But generally I was surprised how immersive this was, how quickly I entered the world of the story and lived with this middle-late 1880s generation. I expected something far more stodgy and comparatively amateur (like proto-Mann), I think, and so was pleased to move through this and find him writing at the highest level from the get-go — it’s not a “soap opera” as some have said, but Tony’s kiss with the aspiring young doctor at the beach as a teen and the subsequent betrothal to the ridiculous obsequious Bendix Grunlich with sideburns dusted in the same gold powder they use on almonds around Xmas really got me into it — the conflict between love and familial duty, the sort of restrictions that in the West have gone extinct for the good of society but the detriment of our literature.

Loved the repeated image of the waves “raucously” crashing on the shore, their “ineluctable” succession suggestive of the passage of time, generations that emerge from the previous and give way to the next — loved Thomas’s evening of mystical insight after reading some philosophy (its Eastern overtones reminded me of Schopenhauer) and his totally realistic determination to change his life and then after a few days return to his entirely societally constrained ways.

Loved the conflict between Thomas the rational conservative duty-bound for the family’s sake to stand firmly in the past and Christian the globe-trotting liberated gadabout who tells a good story and cares not about convention with both feet planted in the future.

Loved the conflict between the old ways and the emerging new (exemplified by the organ teacher’s initial exasperated disdain for Wagner, followed by his understanding and appreciation). In the same ballpark but not quite playing the same socio-historical game as Joseph Roth’s The Radetzky March — unlike other Mann novels that have an eye out (often maybe semi-excessively explicitly in Magic Mt. and Dr F.) for the political situations of their time, this one seems more completely focused on its characters and their world.

Loved how Mann handled Tony’s every utterance with characteristic affectionate “gentle irony” — loved how Mann never condescends to characters he knows are questionable, how he stands back and presents it with at most a suggestion of judgment.

Loved the patient, thorough, consistently reinforced characterizations (Christian’s roving eyes and trouble swallowing and story about Johnny Thunderstorm; Thomas’s mustaches waxed and curled to extend beyond his either cheek).

Loved the minor characters, particularly the early iteration of Gosch, whose first name I won’t dare try to spell, awed by Gerda’s beauty, with his hair combed forward over his brow.

Loved how Gerda is like one of those mysterious statuesque women who glide from the shadows of ruined Gothic novel estates. Only Clara seemed undercharacterized and only once or twice did I feel a little confused about a plot point.

Loved how there’s so much life in here, all of it lived and “real” without a trace of post-modern or post-realist “reality hunger” techniques — it’s about as straight-up conventional pre-Joyce steady third-person narration as could be, a proper novel uber alles, the shoulders-of-giants Faulkner will stand upon when he conceives of the Compson family fallen on hard times (thanks to this review by GR friend Jonfaith that mentions this parallel).

Makes me want to read more 19th century lit like Dickens, Austen, Eliot. Anyway, a great novel, totally ambitious, controlled, and affective in its portrayal of a family’s decline thanks mostly to the natural progression of innate individual sensibilities making their way through life — ends on a really pessimistic note, something along the lines of “life will crush us all” — but overall its presentation of life’s deep dark richness and warmth is somehow optimistic, or at least suggests that our brief experience of however many days we’re allotted is absolutely worth it.

Not the cover of the John E. Woods translation FYI

The Magic Mountain (1926)

In 1997, in Jamaica Plain, Boston, ~4 am, mid-June, after a college friend’s band played downstairs at the Middle East and everyone afterwards came back to our place, I remember a coolish girl on our porch saying to me something like “Oh, you like to read? I bet you like boring shit like The Magic Mountain.” I don’t remember my response but since then whenever I’ve thought of this book I’ve flashed to that scene and her assumption that only pretentious little fuckers read books like this. Now, if I time-traveled back to Boston that night (the sun was just barely up, actually — early summer dawn comes around 4 am) I’d change her mind about me and The Magic Mountain with enthusiastic description of how the book was boring at times, sure, totally intentionally boring at times, I’d say, but shit it’s most certainly not. Sure, it’s so slow at first it seems like a chore, but I think in fact it’s also a mountainous testament to the importance of writerly/readerly patience, more than it’s a “magical” read.

It didn’t get going for me until 330 freaking pages in (706 total). Turns out Mann ain’t Musil (The Man Without Qualities Vol. 1: A Sort of Introduction and Pseudo Reality Prevails by Robert Musil is different in tone, particularly, and for me was more enjoyable/superior throughout, more open and humorous, and somehow also seemed much less dense) — he’s more like a superintellectual Stendhal or, at his best, matches the vivid prose and encompassing scope of Tolstoy. Formally steady pre-modernist approach: no real structural or extended language-y experimentation (other than a 17-page essay on the connection between cellular structure and galaxies). Content-wise, every page seems infused with intellectual talk — it’s explicitly hyper-thematic, a novel of ideas in which the major conflicts are theoretical, a novel that climaxes with a confounding blizzard of argument between opposing intellectuals (“Operationes Spirtuales,” p 432-460) followed by a sublime chapter (“Snow,” p 460-489) in which the main dude Hans sets out for some solo skiing and gets lost in an actual blizzard of wind-driven snow that gives way to abstractions and hallucinations, like how conflicting theories about Progress or Spirit or the necessity of terror or humaneness are manifested in reality — first, escalating into real physical conflict between the two intellectual adversaries (the humanist Settembrini and the protofascist Naphta) and then later on real physical conflict among nations driven to war by ideas: “What? Ideas, simply because they were rigorous, led inexorably to bestial deeds, to a settlement by physical struggle?”

Overall, on a meaningless/arbitrary reading-experience ratings scale of one to five stars, I’d award three stars for maybe 600 total pages of this and nine stars for another scattered 106 pages, mostly during three parts: 1) the Mardi Gras bit (“Danse Macabre”) in which italicized English indicates French is spoken, 2) the aforementioned chapter called “Snow” and much of the chapter before it that introduces Naphta’s horrific backstory (note: freaking Naphta doesn’t appear until page 367 — try getting away with that these days, writer friends — also, GR reviews mentioning a certain Herr Naphta helped me make it through the first 300+ pages since it was clear that a major character was yet to appear), and 3) the riveting final 20 pages or so (really gets going on page 686 – won’t give things away).

All in all, things seem intentionally shaped like an arduous ascent in itself. It’s a novel that knows it’s arduous, trying to induce irregular, elastic experiences of time in readers similiar to those of the characters (time is one of the novel’s major themes; its elaboration/presentation here kicks the crap outta — ahem, ahem — semi-recent Pulitzer winners also concerned with time). It’s a novel that tries to induce a confounded sense in readers, too, erring on the side of a sort of highly managed confusion intermixed with occasional passages of extreme clarity (eg, at one point there’s a description of moments when the sides of mountains all around can be seen through temporary openings in the clouds).

~10 years ago (~2009), not so sickly, in Peru

It’s structured like an upwardly undulating slope that ends sort of in open air. The language is always accessible but it’s rarely propelled by a narrative engine running on high-viscosity plot. For the most part, the plot involves questions like: Will Hans get sick? Will Hans stay long? Will Hans get the girl he likes? Will Settembrini or Naptha win the struggle for Hans’ burgeoning intellectual soul? Will Hans get sicker and die and or freakin’ leave this jawn, healthy or not? It’s sort of like Paradise Lost, where their sickness (moist spots) and their actual/theoretical removal from the flatlands is their innocence, and Hans over the course of his time on the mountain must awake from his stuporous dream-life where he plays king while expertly wrapped in blankets and waxes about the stars and weighs various philosophies including one involving the supremacy of emotions over the intellect (imagined Pepperkorn in the film played by none other than Don Quixote).

Any demerits when rating my reading experience seemed related to my restlessness not always dealing with the novel’s requirements for audacious readerly patience, not to mention its somewhat underdrawn minor characters, the semi-hokey thing about Hans’s unrequited love for a semi-Asiatic pretty boy in grade school he revisits with an alluring lady with similarly slanty eyes and pale skin. Not really a book with many favorable female characters other than one protoliberated object of Hans’ lust known for slamming doors.

In general, felt like a month-long vacation somewhere I often wanted to leave that nevertheless offered dramatic experiences and vistas and insight. Now I’m glad to be home — I really look forward to reading a few quicker, easier, shorter books in a row — but also I feel like the effort was rewarded, especially in the last twenty pages.

I’d recommend the experience of this book to anyone with ample patience or, better yet, anyone interested in trying to slowly but surely overcome their readerly ADHD; everyone else, make sure to read the chapter called “Snow,” just under thirty of the finest/most vivid pages I can remember reading in my life here in the flatlands, pages I’m sure to read many more times. Anyway, a major mess-with-me-not weapon to wield against those who argue against the presence of ideas in fiction. Highly recommended to pretentious little fuckers everywhere, of any age over 30 (if younger, I’d wait to read it).

(A note on names — Naptha’s name seems to relate to naphtha: “Naphtha normally refers to a number of flammable liquid mixtures of hydrocarbons . . . It is a broad term covering among the lightest and most volatile fractions of the liquid hydrocarbons in petroleum. Naphtha is a colorless to reddish-brown volatile aromatic liquid, very similar to gasoline.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naphtha)

Also not the John E. Woods translation — looks like a Spanish translation cover

Doctor Faustus (1947)

Got up before dawn one morning to finish the last two chapters with coffee, knew I wouldn’t be able to read the final 17 pages the previous night — didn’t really want to put the book down over the last few reading days as it started to take off toward its finale thanks to way more dramatization than in, well, most of it. Like all Mann I’ve read it requires and it rewards patience. Like in The Magic Mountain, if you make it through the first 250–300 slow, dense pages, things take off at a pretty good upwards clip, plus the long opening semi-slog becomes a super-strong foundation on which Mr. Mann builds his dramatic and thematic pinnacles. I’m glad I read this after Stefan Zweig’s Holderlin, Kleist, and Nietzsche: The Struggle with the Daemon, which presents three real case studies of melancholic genius/madness in Germanic artists — Adrian fits the bill. I streamed F.M. Murnau’s 1926 silent film version of “Faust” earlier in the year — and I really only remember a few images from it: a dark cloud enveloping a city that’s also Satan’s wing, the ending image of the Christ-like embodiment of Love (“Liebe”). (I’ve never made it through more than a few pages of Goethe’s “Faust,” deeming it maybe untranslatable.)

In Mann’s version, no archangel swoops in to rescue the damned. A divine little boy makes a stand toward the end but not for long, thanks to Adrian’s pact, which is sort of the point of the novel’s end — after Nazi horrorshow, the mass destruction and murder but also the eternal damnation in the narrator’s eyes of all things German (the land, the people, the language, the culture), redemption/hope for humanity won’t come easy. Only after everything is destroyed, including Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” which Adrian’s “The Lamentations of Dr. Faustus” reverses, do we have a chance.

I found the narrator (the POV/approach) pretty problematic through most (not all) of the novel. I was all like why’s Mann mussing his story with this mask? Why not just tell the story of the damned musical genius and parallel it with WWII hell and otherwise get outta the way of its awesomeness? Temporally, Mann probably needed the musical overthrow of polyphony to precede Nazi overthrow of humanity, since it wouldn’t have made historical sense if they occurred simultaneously? Maybe Mann also wanted to formally disrupt the story the way Adrian uses dissonance? Regardless, it’s hard to believe that the narrator isn’t Mann himself. When Zeitblom says oh how badly I’m writing, I think something like oh how badly Mann is trying to express his story through this narrator who of course shouldn’t write as well as Thomas Mann but then, well, every once in a while takes on these jags of straight-up towering literary artistry.

Four point five stars for my reading experience rating since I can’t shake the sense I had through the first 250 pages that such a lengthy development wasn’t totally necessary, that these pages could have been reduced and integrated after Adrian’s pact with Satan, although of course that would’ve been a sensationalist way to start the novel. It helps I guess that we have young Adrian’s secret, almost ashamed discovery of the harmonium, the image of his arrogant laughter, the characterizing repetition of that gesture of a sort of absence as he turns away with a slight smile. There’s also the foundation of the relationship the narrator has with Adrian, the boyhood chumminess/love complete with use of the informal familiar tense, and then the loss of that and the narrator’s jealousy for the friendship, most likely also of the flesh, per Adrian’s confession at the end, between Adrian and the flirty violinist. As in a lot of Mann, there’s suggested homosexuality — this time between Adrian and the violinist. There’s also maybe the suggestion that Adrian contracted syphilis from “touching” the girl with the flat-nose/mermaid/Esmeralda/muse that leads to migraines and madness?

One of the most memorable scenes is when the virtuoso violinist sits in with a little chamber orchestra in a room of a hotel with a glass floor, wows everyone, and then insists on skiing behind the horse-drawn sleigh. He’s clearly doomed at that moment — a superhuman figure, who like little Echo the golden boy, is doomed.

Loved the two teachers early on — the typical proto-Nazi German and the American stutterer who conveys his passion for music to Adrian.

The music elements weren’t as pronounced as I thought they’d be — I couldn’t quite follow all of it but I got the gist for the most part. At one time I pulled out my guitar to confirm that the notes written out for the refrain that acknowledges Adrian’s muse sound like the devil’s tritone, which we all know from “Black Sabbath”.

Loved the few pages where Adrian relays what it’s like to journey underwater in a diving bell, passages that extrapolate out to discussion of the infinite cosmos — reminded me of Hans lost in the snow in “The Magic Mountain” and Joseph in the well in Joseph and His Brothers, still by far my fave of the Mann I’ve read. Mann excels when he places a sensitive young dude in potentially tragic solitary confinement. In this one, Adrian’s confinement is all-encompassing and intellectual rather than physical.

In general, after a slow start thanks mostly to long essayistic stretches, the story takes off, addled by cliffhangers and some melodrama, sure, but it’s all saved by the heft of the pacts Germany and Adrian have made with evil. Really an amazingly ambitious artistic achievement — worth re-reading though I doubt I will anytime soon — 4.5 stars for now although I’ll maybe knock it up to five over time as I remember the strong finish/overall sense of it and everything else falls away.

The John E. Woods translation hardcover with snazzy bookmark ribbon

Joseph & His Brothers (1933–1943)

A six-star masterpiece of authority, erudition, execution, insight, wisdom, relevance, characterization, and epic adventure. Move over, The Magic Mountain — this one deserves your reputation and readership. Despite 1492 dense “Everyman’s Library” pages, this one is much more engaging, moving, thematically hefty, and its incorporation of ancient history, mythology, and DETAIL more often boggles than numbs the mind.

There’s an older translation with more biblical language, but this one by Woods flows like Tolstoy’s take on a bit of the Old Testament. It’s Mann, though — you can tell by the gentle irony, massive doses of description, ridiculous depth of knowledge, and of course the old man’s authorial crush on his pretty boy proto-ubermensch, proto-Christ, super-Jew protagonist, Joseph. The story as a whole suggests the story of Jesus, as well as the story of Osiris, but what I found more interesting was the subtle, intentionally ambiguous critique of Nazi Germany — at times Joseph is the arrogant Aryan superman, at times his brothers are the brownshirts, at times Egypt is the aggressive expansionist empire. Toward the end, the story suggests post-Depression-era New Deal programs and Soviet collectivism.

Like all great lit, this one explicitly champions ambiguity. Joseph is thrown into a well by his brothers — a scene that rivals (maybe even surpasses) the one in The Magic Mountain when Hans is lost in the snow while skiing — and sold into slavery, but it’s all ultimately part of a playful “holy game” God plays on the brothers.

Beyond exceptional social, historical, and theological thematic stuff, Mann’s storytelling skills are ridiculous. He’s long-winded at times, sure. He says “in short” and then rips off a meaty summarizing paragraph. But he’s so in control and does such an extraordinary job of orientating the reader I at least never felt lost, never wondered who was talking (I’m looking at you, Proust), always felt right there in the desert with soft-spoken Rueben with his column legs, cross-eyed Leah, Rachel with the beautiful eyes, little Benjamin, on and on. So many characters, all of them with their reinforced distinguishing traits over several hundred pages. Very few women, most of them either idealized beautiful mother lovers or sultry and deceitful witch temptresses, but there are two dwarves in this. One even gets cudgeled by his master as things almost veer toward comedy. Especially toward the end, it’s good clean fun when the narrator more often directly addresses the reader, but all along you feel Mann leading you through the story, in absolute control of its every aspect, including giving it air and life.

Considering that this extrapolates a few opaque lines in the bible into 1492 pages written over 16 years coinciding with the rise/fall of the Third Reich — considering that this monumental novel about some of the earliest Jews was written while Mann’s country exterminated six million of their mid-20th century vintage and tried to take over the world — this might be a prime example of high-lit heroic insurgency. At times it reads like he’s raising a huge middle finger and directing it at his tragically misguided homeland. But it’s more than that. There’s wisdom, instruction, even a few moments of magic, and hope that it’s all part of God’s plan, even the worldwide horror of WWII.

Anyway, towering literary artistry to the nth degree. Considering how long it takes to read this one, the $40 hardback is totally worth it — plus it comes with one of those snazzy built-in bookmark ribbons. Easily one of the top reading experiences of my life.

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To support the publishers who have supported my writing, please acquire a copy of Like It Matters: An Unpublishable Novel, Chaotic Good, Neutral Evil ))), and/or JRZDVLZ (all from Sagging Meniscus). Or my translation of Horacio Castellanos Moya’s Revulsion: Thomas Bernhard in San Salvador. Or Thanks + Sorry + Good Luck: Rejection Letters From the Eyeshot Outbox directly from the publisher. Or even a copy of The Shimmering Go-Between directly from me (the publisher is kaput).

A Good Samurai Will Parry the Blow: The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt (Plus a Bit About Lightning Rods and The English Understand Wool)

I was inspired to post some impressions of Helen DeWitt’s novels after seeing that The Last Samurai — an all-time favorite I’ve read twice, own in first-edition signed hardcover (see inscription/signature above) and multiple paperbacks (I hoard them to give away after rescuing from used bookstores) — was named the best book of the 21st century (for now) and received top-notch summary/appreciation treatment by Christian Lorentzen.

Here’s what I thought about it after re-reading in 2011:

Especially recommended to cold cerebral dudes with liberal arts degrees in English Lit who rarely read fiction by living women.

Would also recommend it to those who loved The Elegance of the Hedgehog but thought it might have been a bit twee.

Re-read ten years after first reading in 2001, after really enjoying DeWitt’s very different second novel, Lightning Rods (see below), as soon as it came out in 2011.

In the past decade (2001-11) I’ve crammed in a few hundred novels, a few hundred pages of my own writing, and an MFA etc. And it’s still one of my all-time faves, maybe my favorite contemporary novel, up there with Infinite Jest, 2666, and An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter.

It’s 530 pages but it feels more like 325 since there are tons of blank pages and pages without much text in English on them and spare dialogue throughout that flies down the page.

It’s a virtuoso performance about the limits of virtuosity. An explicitly intelligent, skillful novel about the necessity of something more than intelligence and skill.

Structurally, it has two parts, one narrated by the mother and the other narrated by the son. The first part narrated by the mother is joyous as the main characters emerge, especially as the six-year-old genius son goes to school for the first time. Ludo, age six, knows Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and is learning Japanese, etc, etc, but mostly wants to learn who his biological father is. The second half of the book is narrated by Ludo, age 11, who hunts down seven potential fathers, all of them geniuses/ heroes, some more vividly described by the author than others, but all of them making the end sadder and more “poignant” than the opening.

It’s set in London in the mid-’90s, not 16th Century Japan. It has nothing to do with the Tom Cruise movie of the same name, although it’s thematically perfect that this book, which constantly refers to Kurosawa’s “The Seven Samurai” and is about parrying the blow brought down on the head by worldwide cultural idiocy (“Sesame Street seems about the right level”) is confused with a Tom Cruise movie.

On second read, I thought some of the potential fathers were rushed a little bit, that the last 100 pages got a bit thin at times, but not enough to undermine my love.

On October 27, 2011, I very sheepishly asked Ms. DeWitt to sign my first edition hardback after a New Directions 75th Anniversary reading event thing in NYC. Very awkward to approach someone you know and love who has no clue who you are, of course.

I wanted to give her a hug but she’s sort of birdlike compared to this bearlike reader, plus it could have been misconstrued as assault (very recommended reading: a few years later she posted this diary about a stalker).

Above her signature, she wrote “A good samurai will parry the blow” — and I think that’s why folks love this book.

Not only is it explicitly intelligent and original, with text appearing in Japanese, Greek, and Icelandic, but it has such a heart, is more about how one survives when caught out in the storm of shit (see the last line of By Night in Chile).

Also re-watched all 200 minutes of “The Seven Samurai” after finishing the novel. Really a wonderful afternoon and night, especially on a cold snowy/sleety Saturday in October.

Here’s what I wrote in 2007 about my first read in 2001:

One of my fave books. Totally amazing literary fun. Totally underhyped. Watch “The Seven Samurai” and read this and have a damn fine high-art aesthetic experience. Please, dear friends, read this fucker and help raise Helen Dewitt to her proper status as Queen of England, even if she lives in Connecticut or wherever and was reported missing for a while two years ago. Really a can’t miss, wonderfully fast, intelligent, funny novel.

Also Here’s Something About Helen DeWitt’s Lightning Rods

In the early '90s (the day the World Trade Center was bombed, in fact), I saw three sets of eyes when I looked at myself in the mirror on mushrooms -- this great cover triggered me to remember that not particularly good time . . .

This novel was maybe a little ahead of its time in 2011 but now seems more plausible. 

Written circa 1999, Helen DeWitt’s second novel seems spawned by the stain on Monica Lewinsky’s dress. Should’ve been published years before October 2011 — a shame that those who LOVED DeWitt’s first novel published in 2000 had to wait so long for NYC publishers to get their act together (long live New Directions!).

Readers who like to laugh should read this one: the first hundred pages seemed to have 1+ LOLs per page. Sometimes reminded me of George Saunders, Michel Houllebecq, Amanda Filipacchi, Charlie Kaufman, Torsten Krol. Initial hilarity ensues thanks to the revelation and ridiculously enjoyable, rational unraveling of the title’s significance. In a recent interview, she says this one was inspired by Mel Brooks and the “Springtime for Hiter” bit in “The Producers” rather than the considerably higher art “The Seven Samurai” by Kurosawa that inspired her first one.

With this one, revealing any of its audacious/bawdy turns would reduce its pleasures. Let’s just say it’s about an innovative solution to a workplace challenge and that this innovation is controversial at first but becomes more commonplace in time.

A pleasure I will reveal is that every page is purposefully studded with cliched language, sometimes as many as three cliches/word packages per sentence. At times I was so badly busting a gut I felt like I could eat a horse, which is a whole different kettle of fish that once brought to water is a pea in the satirization pod re: the rise and sustained erection of an American business endeavor. Gotta love good ol’ American get up and go.

The book’s last line is “In America anything is possible” but the story ain’t anything goes. Once it introduces and establishes the plot’s implausible engine, the rest involves its rational defense against all obstacles, particularly politically correct ones but also those faced by any new business, like competition from cheaper services etc. Despite the initial freakishness, such focus is a strength but maybe also one of the book’s weaknesses? A zany, rational, totally enjoyable pageturner, like DeWitt’s first novel a little bit — not as explicitly smart as The Last Samurai but still fundamentally smarter and culturally critical and joyously unhinged (and flat-out funnier, the first third of it at least) than most contemporary American fiction I’ve read.

As in her first book, lots of short chapters, cliffhangers, and white space between chapters so you finish a chapter and turn a few pages and suddenly find you’re five pages deeper into the reading day’s page count. There’s something attractive about that apparently accelerative effect . . .

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And here’s something about The English Understand Wool

Really enjoyed it after a second read. Not so into it through the first third or so, on first read, but it sort of undermines trust midway, or undergoes a surprising shift in perspective, so what seems like one thing, one way of telling a story, is something else, bringing with it variation in tone to Bethany’s letters and commencing that old DeWitt magic or, um, wit. As in The Last Samurai, which I’ve also read twice, there’s dramatization of the conflict between sophisticate and philistine, herein presented as the young author of much of the text that’s presented through the first third and her New York editor. It’s fun, generally, and the situation lets the author flex her strongest muscles — high-minded erudition in conflict with the forces of the common and commerce — and grind her favorite anti-publishing industry ax. Could’ve been much longer, a proper novel, but perfectly satisfying if you double its page count by reading it twice. The title as a refrain is similar in a way to “a good samurai will parry the blow.”

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FWIW I’ve read a few hundred pages of Your Name Here and most of Some Trick, both of which show flashes of what make the three books above so good. I really would love to read a memoir or autobiographical novel or collection of essays from the author.

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To support the publishers who have supported my writing, please acquire a copy of Like It Matters, Chaotic Good, Neutral Evil ))), and/orJRZDVLZ (all from Sagging Meniscus). Or my translation of Horacio Castellanos Moya’s Revulsion: Thomas Bernhard in San Salvador (from New Directions). Or Thanks + Sorry + Good Luck: Rejection Letters From the Eyeshot Outbox directly from the publisher Barrelhouse Books. Or even a copy of The Shimmering Go-Between directly from me (the publisher is kaput).

The Rabbit Series by John Updike: Twentieth-Century Time Capsule of Restlessness in Southeastern Pennsylvania (Rabbit, Run; Rabbit Redux; Rabbit Is Rich; Rabbit at Rest)

There’s a Rabbit Run Road near where I live in Southeastern Pennsylvania

Rabbit, Run (1960)

I read a paperback of Rabbit, Run 20+ years ago, mostly sitting in the sun in a backyard in Iowa City. From that reading I really only remember a sex scene early on that seemed to do something to my lower abdominal area, like something had shifted downward — a really weird feeling, not turned on so much as something about the phrases affected, constricted, tightened the guts. Could’ve just been something I ate, of course — I remembering grilling trout a lot that summer.

I read a first-edition hardcover (dust jacket intact protected by mylar) of Rabbit Redux this past May and then, as soon as I finished, I pressed play on the audiobook version of Rabbit, Run on Spotify while otherwise reading Rabbit Is Rich in a first-edition hardcover (dust jacket intact protected by mylar). The opening scene playing some kids at a playground basketball hoop, I remembered, and listening to it again it was so vivid, the swish, the feeling of the ball on the hands. The line at the end of the section, the good kid who respected Rabbit because “real ones know,” seemed to suggest to the reader — or the listener — that the author is a real one and real readers will recognize the quality. There’s something about that line that creates a connection between author and reader, the confidence in Rabbit’s game redounding on Updike’s prose style.

From 2007 until recently my review on Goodreads noted page 17 as the home of the sex scene that created the effect mentioned above, but there was nothing ~17 audiobook pages into this that seemed capable of that. A scene with Janice seemed insignificant compared with what I’d recently read in Rabbit Redux, one of the most explicit novels I’ve read in the modern era, more so than Miranda July’s All Fours.

I listened to the section where Rabbit takes off in the car south while I was driving into Philadelphia from the southwest and laughed at the unrestrained negative descriptions of Philly while descending the George C. Platt Memorial Bridge, with a fantastic view of the city’s skyline, the marshy wasteland south of the city formerly marked by industrial smokestacks spewing obvious toxins replaced by acres of newly constructed AI data centers or maybe Amazon warehouses, a minor improvement I suppose. I definitely didn’t remember that fugue south and wondered if it had influenced a novella I’d written around that time involving a fugue south.

I also definitely didn’t remember the minister Eccles or games of golf with an almost abstracted, mythic, spiritual tinge to them or descriptions of Rabbit’s miraculous drive where the language hits a high. The scenes with Rabbit’s old coach I loved, how Tothero maintained his silence before responding, controlling everyone. Per Google, the surname Tothero is common in southeastern PA and derives from Dötterer, relating to poultry farmers who dealt with eggs, but “Tot” also means “dead” in German, so the coach’s name suggests “Dead Hero.”

And then everything with Ruth is fantastic, the sex scene done well, subdued compared with what’s to come in the second installment but surely shocking or at least alluring and uncommon for its time

The perspective shifts around this part of the novel to Eccles, and as in the second and third novels, I anticipated such a change, expecting that maybe 8% of the novel at most will be told from POVs other than Rabbit’s, an interesting intentional inconsistency that lends some perspective to the primary perspective. And then everything with Janice in childbirth, after the delivery woozy on pain meds, Harry having left Ruth after essentially forcing her to please him on her knees, followed by the horrific scene in which Harry wants just a taste even though Janice has been suffering episiotomy pain and breastfeeding all day, and it’s revealed to all really be about empathy, the perspective shifted to Janice as she repeatedly laments Harry’s inability to put himself in other people’s shoes (what they used to say before they relied on the word “empathy”), which opened up some space between the author and the narrative voice’s occupation of a not always so noble young man, not particularly educated, doing his best, following his instincts, trying to do what’s right but so often making the wrong choice. That is, the shift in perspective let Updike off the hook a bit since sometimes Rabbit’s perceptions are so precise and nasty or distasteful you naturally wind up thinking the author is somewhat of a sicko, but then the bit with Janice shows that the author all along has been trying to create an effect.

And then the novel reveals itself as a tragedy and generally elevated for me, taking on some more heft. The ending scene with Ruth too, when she essentially says divorce Janice and marry me or the baby she carries will die, is totally gripping, and the wide-open ending seems perfectly suitable and right, thanks in large part I suppose to the title.

Listening to the book you can’t of course see the prose and Updike’s prose is so much about vision, description, almost gratuitous, achieving an effect that transcends realism, ie, that’s so well-observed that the familiar seems if not strange than at least seen in a way that, after a dozen or so hours of exposure to its observations and perceptions makes you observe and perceive things if not more clearly than simply a little more. It’s clear that Updike practices a visual art form more than a sonic one, his sentences written for the senses they evoke, the words chosen not just for their meaning and sound but their shape and stance, their look and feel, a writer absolutely 100% aware of the texture of prose.

Thematically, compared with the other two novels set at the end of the 1960s and the end of the 1970s, this one set at the end of the 1950s doesn’t seem as obviously intended to serve as a time capsule or a core sample of its era, although of course it does seem to predict what’s associated with the ’60s, a sense of feeling trapped by family and church and town and expectation and running from it all, dropping out, yes, but not quite tuning in, turning on sexually, sure, but not quite psychically.

Rabbit Redux (1971)

A merry month of May study of Updike’s famous series feels pleasantly contrarian or unrelated or irrelevant or at least it did at first before this one started to unfurl all its gory ’69 glory, almost too relevant to 2020 social justice rioting after the murder of George Floyd, the wide-open racism in the mouths of the whites, the too-meaningful American flag sticker on the back window of the car. The phrase “make America great again” even makes an appearance.

At first Rabbit’s racist thoughts on the bus are too much, almost impossible to imagine in a novel nowadays, trigger warnings galore for sex, drugs, the N word, the C word, all the off-limits words and their related thoughts and spirits spelled out, drawn in bold, emphasized, streaked in graceful attentive consumable flowing surprising changeable language serving for the most part a story naturally unwinding, eventful, alive, human, sometimes so active the text takes on a swerve that almost feels pointillistic, all its details slanted in the direction of where the story’s going across and down the pages.

Sometimes seems to almost follow a formula of a set-up or introductory establishing shot followed by straightforward dialogue-replete scene followed by interior passages, the perspective deepening from surfaces to consciousness, sentence fragments, oft poetic.

And the sex.

There’s a lot more sex than I’m used to reading, loins described as swamp and earth, that sort of thing, gumdrops, but really this is the social justice education of Rabbit (36) with two kids half his age, an 18-year-old white rich girl junkie runaway hippie-type and her young friend, a black Vietnam Vet a little more than half crazy on the run from the fuzz. Sometimes felt like the precedent for Franzen’s recent Crossroads, or I could recognize this one as an essential underlying structure for that one.

Generally, just fully enjoyable reading, immersive, high-def, psychologically and emotionally and socially mature and insightful with its ideas about America 1969 totally embedded in the characters and their interactions, all of them, even the minor characters like a Vietnam Vet who threatens Rabbit about Skeeter staying at his house, so clearly drawn, so patiently and thoroughly described without Henry Jamesing it.

At most at times the expected rotation to passages of interiority seems a bit automatic and too much, but always seemed worth it, and of course there’s the setting, the town of Brewer, essentially Reading, the fifth-largest city in PA, near where Updike grew up in Shillington, where I intend to drive the child to this summer for an hour-or-so outing by car to the northwest of where we live.

I read Rabbit Run 20+ years ago in a backyard in the sun. Had the Everyman’s Library omnibus edition of all four Rabbit novels and read the first page or two of this one a few times but never could manage more. Acquired the old original Knopf hardcovers for nearly nothing at the local library book sale over the last few years and it makes all the difference, the linotype set in Janson, the thick paper, the comfortable margins, the legible size of the text.

Rabbit Is Rich (1981)

There’s something pleasant about Updike’s consciousness and prose style descending to inhabit Harry Angstrom. There’s a slight dissonance, in that we know the author is smarter or more worldly or at least certainly better educated than his character, but the author inhabits the character with grace, giving Harry the benefit of the doubt, albeit a little too often making him seem like a sex-obsessed pig, a little too quick to use the C word. I liked when Harry was seen through Thelma’s eyes, rounding him out, the appealing perceptions counterbalancing everything we know of him.

Sometimes felt like this one corrected for the second volume which corrected for the first volume, in that this one focused more on family and interpersonal dynamics, whereas the second volume was more about the influence or the integration of new societal trends into one’s consciousness, whereas the first volume was more about a young man’s attempt to break free of traditional values of church, coach, wife, family, anticipating that trend in the ’60s.

Like the title indicates, this one is richer than the first two, longer, more populous maybe, the interest introduced in the beginning of Harry and Ruth’s possible daughter used to gracefully herd the novel’s episodes along, like Fritze the collie maybe, intermittently there in the back of this reader’s mind wondering when we’d get back to it.

Got a little frustrated through the bits too often focused on Nelson, although the payoffs with the convertibles and the scene at the party (as they leave) were worth it and solid (I yelled out during the latter). Posted an update about how the novel had lost all narrative drive midway through during the marriage scene but I trusted it would pick up, assuming it would return to Ruth’s daughter, but appreciated how she emerged at the party, Nelson’s curiosity, her white pants, how he wanted to cover her up when she was passed out in one of the bedrooms, a sort of instinctual sibling tenderness. And then things really picked up once Harry explored Webb and Cyndi’s upstairs alone — Updike defaulting to his primary interest in sexual activity — and pretty much maintained that clip to the end.

The final 150 pages or so when Harry and Janice go on an extended triple-date Caribbean vacation worked wonderfully well to get them out of Brewer and change the atmosphere but more so to differentiate the side characters and give them depth, particularly Thelma and Ronnie her drape-head “playmaker” husband who’s been a hairy loud annoyance ever since the first book. And of course there’s the very much unexpected ’70s-style open-mindedness among the three married couples including an even more unexpected instance of extra-marital action, although I suppose it was maybe inevitable after Harry’s intriguing discovery while snooping around upstairs at Webb’s.

Loved how the Webb’s upstairs bathroom (the blue shag toilet cover, the little Hollywood-ish lightbulbs around the mirror) dredged memories of a neighbor friend’s bathrooms from the late 70s — and unlike the first two novels I was alive during this one’s time frame, watched the Rams/Steelers Super Bowl the novel ended on, saw George “The Iceman” Gervin play in person versus Dr J and the 76ers at the Spectrum, appreciated mentions of Phillies (Rose, Bowa) and Eagles players (Jaws) — if set in 1980 instead of the late ’70s, all Philly teams would’ve made the finals — and I remember hearing about inflation for the first time in my life and seeing an expletive preceding “Iran” (which I only associated with a popular Flocks of Seagulls song at the time) spray-painted on the cement under an overpass.

Generally enjoyed reading this — again, in part thanks to the old hardcover.

Rabbit at Rest (1990)

Loved this last major installment for the riveting, so well-executed/vivid scene on the little sunfish sailboat with the granddaughter, for its patient final movement echoing the fugue of the first book, for its penultimate scene echoing the opening scene of the series, and for the consistent evocation, reinforcement, and animation of the characterization, particularly the primary family players, not to mention the setting (Brewer PA, as well as Deleon FL).

I’ve always thought of Updike as a supremely graceful liquid lucid sentence writer, who in his essay “At War with My Skin” (in Self-Consciousness) says he smoothed his prose to compensate for his psoriasis. But the take-away from this series more so is his facility with dramatization, the general palpability, the vitality, the simple LIFE of his scenes, the unforced, natural dictation of the dialogue replete with unspoken asides and associations, which over the course of four novels between 300 and 500 pages accretes so Harry’s memories serve as pleasant reminders for readers.

This installment, early on it was pretty obvious we’d be dealing with heart trouble for Harry and a coke habit for Nelson, and the full-on revelation of both issues about 100 to 150 pages in proved fully satisfying and propelled the novel across the somewhat longer, denser pages. This one felt more fully from Harry’s perspective, without, to my memory, the intermittent POV switches to other characters, literarily gaining perspective on Harry’s actions, as in the others. It feels more fully seated in his mind, presenting his thoughts and observations in an accessible way, more in complete sentences than artful “stream of consciousness” deep-POV fragments.

In a comment on an update I posted to Goodreads after reading the first twenty pages or so, a respected friend who had given this one-star wrote: “everyone keeps telling me that Updike is a super-serious major American author, and I just keep assuming that they have carbon monoxide poisoning or something.”

I agree that he’s not “super-serious” — there’s something more “joco-serious” or seriously joking or joking seriously about the narrative stance. There’s a playfulness that’s not quite satire but not NOT satire, almost like Thomas Mann’s characteristic “gentle irony,” that’s by nature accessible and American in a way (not too staid or full of itself, pompous high Euro style), the way Steinbeck is accessible down-to-earth American, or like Steinbeck slanted with some of Nabokov and Joyce’s enchantments?

There’s a smile on the face of the writer as he writes, appreciating his creation, trying to please, neither writing down to his mass audience nor trying to impress them with fancy literary pyrotechnics. You can’t tell these books from their iconic striped covers (I read inexpensive first-edition hardcovers with dust jackets intact in mylar covers), but you can tell them from the author photos below, with Updike serving while playing tennis, or smiling as though he’s just done something naughty, or covering most of his mouth with a hand.

Also interesting is the influence of these books on the next generation, particularly Franzen, DFW, and Nicholson Baker (U & I). Updike’s flag is firmly planted in the family saga, replete with sexy bits time-stamped with the prevalent rabbit ears of the era and the post-Pill prurience of Penthouse Forum cast as sexual liberation. But there’s also an unfurled endurance to the prose, a covering of bases (and outfield, scoreboard, dugout, mound, bleachers, foul poles etc), a super-generous semi-indulgent accessible maximalist realism, unlike the excessive essayistic questioning “hocking” of Roth for example, that set a standard for the next generation of accessible yet often somewhat unconventional maximalist realists, more so I’d say than Nabokov, Roth, or Mailer and Bellow (who I haven’t read much of but will soon).

On the continuum, Updike is a click or two left of centrist Steinbeck, leaning in the direction of Faulkner and Joyce. There’s still that well-made American craftsmanship (in my Goodreads review of East of Eden I compared Steinbeck’s “brand” to Fender and Levi’s), but there’s an artistic ambition to relay a particular quality of perception of reality that can extrapolate out to seem representative or at least symptomatic of its larger societal temporal milieu that makes things somewhat more unconventional than Steinbeck, the sex of course but also the interiority and the almost unhinged excessive deployment of detail — yet still nowhere near as elaborate or extreme as Joyce or Faulkner.

Harry’s libido in this one has thankfully diminished, the C-word only appears once or twice (always shocking and repellent, as with unfortunate yet characterizing racial and ethnic observations), but the scene during the storm alone at home after the heart attack with Pru was, as the unexpected action with Thelma in Rabbit Is Rich, deliciously audacious, the dictionary-definition of “surprising yet inevitable,” and fit perfectly in the climax slot, more so in this volume since it compelled the ending.

Along the lines of Harry’s diminishment, this installment really emphasizes the importance of proper nutrition and exercise. I’m the same height as Harry, a few years younger than he is in this one, but in no way is my memory beginning to slip or do I or anyone else really consider me anything like a grandpa, but then again I run, walk, am engaged in the world beyond my employment and family, and eat a whole lot better than Harry does. Harry seemed more like a man in his mid-to-late sixties than his mid-fifties, although this was written by Updike (born in 1932) in his mid-to-late fifties. But maybe that’s also the point — he’s retired too early, without pursuits, his arteries clogged, his life mostly in the rearview, old before his time . . .

Temporally, this one’s set in the late ’80s, when I was toward the end of high school, so I remember everything mentioned pretty vividly, particularly the sit-coms (Cosby, Cheers, Roseanne) and of course the athletes (Michael Jordan, Deion Sanders, Mike Schmidt, Randall Cunningham).

At one point he tellingly states he prefers the graceful, effortless Schmidt over Pete Rose, saying if you have to do it with “hustle and grit” you shouldn’t be in the game, suggesting I thought something about writing, that he himself (Updike, not Harry) was akin to Schmidt, although maybe it’s just further characterization reinforcement, with Harry associating his old high-school hoops style with Schmidt more than the Ronnie-like Rose. I also loved the influx of candy and fast-food and the general franchising of Brewer and Florida, seen as an incursion and flattening over the course of the overall timeline.

I also tried to read the novella Rabbit Remembered in the story collection Licks of Love but quit after about 100 pages, thinking that the movement was a little too off the old man’s fastball, but later this summer I’ll re-read Rabbit Run in print (read 20 years ago and listened to this past May) once I get my hands on one of the two old hardcovers my mom says are in her bookshelf.

That’s something too about Updike I’ve always known and considered something of a given: these Rabbit books were always on the built-in bookshelves around the fireplace in the living room of the house where I grew up. I have always known about them, ever since I could read and became aware of the titles, which I used to look at all the time and once tried to catalogue (giving up after a few shelves). Updike was always something my parents had in common — they both read all the time but on either end of the spectrum, with my dad reading more genre stuff like Stephen King or Michener and my mom reading more “serious lit” (Beckett, Handke, everything Sontag recommended et al). So, reading these books, it was interesting for me to imagine my parents reading them as they came out via Book-of-the-Month club or from the local public library while I was pre-extant (the first two), a sapling (the third), a high-school senior (this one).

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To support the publishers who have supported my writing, please acquire a copy of Like It Matters, Chaotic Good, Neutral Evil ))), and/or JRZDVLZ (all from Sagging Meniscus). Or my translation of Horacio Castellanos Moya’s Revulsion: Thomas Bernhard in San Salvador (from New Directions). Or Thanks + Sorry + Good Luck: Rejection Letters From the Eyeshot Outbox (from Barrelhouse). Or The Shimmering Go-Between from me (Atticus, the publisher, is kaput).