Zweig Versus the ZZs of Existence (Chess Story, The World of Yesterday, The Struggle with the Daemon, Confusion, Journey Into the Past, and Montaigne)

If you haven’t read Stefan Zweig, you may be familiar with a semblance of his spirit as seen in Wes Anderson’s 2014 film The Grand Budapest Hotel, which features a concierge (Ralph Fiennes) who looks somewhat like Zweig himself. You can review the plot summary here, and in this interview you can read how Anderson remixed elements he’d read in Zweig’s writing into a feature film. Of course Wes Anderson doesn’t talk about how he wesandersonified everything and reduced the Nazis to defanged, bumbling “ZZs” (named for the lightning bolts on SS labels). And he certainly doesn’t mention (and probably doesn’t even know!) that I found everything in general perfectly enjoyable although a little too stylized, whimsical, and twee for my tastes. A friend had gone to see it on consecutive days and talked it up too much to me, so instead of encountering a masterpiece it seemed something like a WWII-era mitteleuropa cartoon, which again was a perfectly fine way to spend an afternoon four years ago but a bit of a let down due to high expectations.

Zweig’s writing has never really disappointed, plus this is about the handful of Zweig books I’ve read so far, not a movie I’ll probably never watch again (2024 note: streamed it semi-recently and liked it a good deal, way more than Asteroid City, if not as much as Isle of Dogs, which child demanded so often a few years ago we ultimately acquired on DVD). As you’ll see in the little “book reviews” below, my #1 response to reading Zweig always seems to be read more Zweig. His prose in translation always maintains a graceful, profluent, sophisticated, accessible intelligence. It’s easy to see how his books sold millions before they were banned by the Nazis.

Generally, Zweig is an ambassador for a by-gone belief in the supremity of humanity, best expressed not through political or religious activities but in works of art. I still haven’t read his stories (I own the big orange collection), many of his novels, biographies, and mini-histories, or Three Lives, a biography about him. But I look forward to getting to all of it soon-ish and maybe posting about it here when I do.

I imagine Stefan Zweig sitting down next to me while traveling long distance alone by train (first class). A dapper man in a gray three-piece suit, he excuses himself and, with a gentle, weary smile, relays a story told to him the last time he traveled this route in a charming (yet never preening), forward-flowing (yet patient), good-natured (yet never silly/goofy) manner that nevertheless conveys some serious shit that occurred long ago and far away, sure, but still retains its relevance and urgency when considered in terms of the rise of fascism in the United States today.

Also, I’m saddened to learn (via Twitter, just as I went to announce this post) that Stefan Zweig’s primary translator Anthea Bell died today (October 18, 2018). I very much hope the occasion of working on this and posting it had nothing to do with her health. In all seriousness, she’s a translator I’ve known of for years and always looked forward to reading.

Also, 2024 update: streamed/re-watched “The Grand Budapest Hotel” recently and liked it quite a lot. Good work, Wes.


Chess Story
Translated by Joel Rotenberg

A flowing, engaging, gripping, hefty, accessible, masterful novella. Effortless/seamless old-timey Austrian structure: a narrator tells a story that includes someone’s third-person account about one major character and a longish first-person account by another major character. The two chess players are well drawn and absolutely differentiated: one’s a stoic idiot-savant peasant, the other’s an anxious intellectual from a highly regarded Viennese family. Really worth spending the hour or so it takes to read.

Directly addresses Nazi interrogation tactics and oppression but I’d say it’s maybe more about the ability of the mind to free one’s ass but also potentially become a sort of prison in itself. The imagination can imbue a wooden grid and wooden statues with so much serious rational significance that people devote their lives to chess and can ideally provide a refuge against oppression, whether as obvious as Nazi occupation or as subtle as daily boredom and/or a sense of the nothingness of existence etc. But then it can also operate in overdrive, go too far, feed on itself, become a sickness, an arrogance, a feverish instability that fails to recognize what’s going on in reality. I suppose this could be extrapolated to critique National Socialism, too — something about rational reclamation of a country’s spirit taken to sickly irrational extreme? Or maybe it has to do with the war-damaged artistic imagination? Regardless, looks like I need to read a lot more Zweig.

The World of Yesterday
Translated by Anthea Bell

I’d been having trouble settling into a string of novels, too impatient and restless and dissatisfied even with Tolstoy’s Resurrection, zoning out, not looking forward to reading at all. Finally I said screw it and grabbed Zweig’s memoir. By the time I’d made it through his preface it was like he’d administered a heaping dose of just what I need into my unsettled reading organ. I really did feel immediately healed, wanting nothing other than to settle down with Zweig’s flowing sentences, his self-effacing charm, his belief in the primacy of art as protection for humanity.

For a memoir covering his days of early education to 1939, a few years before his suicide in Brazil, he so rarely talks about himself or his family — there’s a mention of trying to apply for a license to marry his second wife in England right as England declares war on Germany, but no mention of a first wife. No mention of kids. Hardly a mention of his parents, other than a bit at the beginning and a bit at the end about his mother. This isn’t a personal memoir at all, really, but a cultural/artistic one. Zero gossip, even if he namedrops Rilke, Rodin, Gide, Joyce, Freud, Richard Strauss, Romain Rolland (who he considers the best of the best and who now seems wildly underread).

Zweig’s a little like a Zelig character, except Zweig at the time is as famous as those he’s with. The portraits of Rodin (great artists are always the kindest, he says — he also shows Rodin go into such an OCD trance while working on a sculpture that he forgets young Zweig is even in the room) and the stiff, bitter polylinguist James Joyce during WWI in Zurich as he’s working on Ulysses are worth the price of admission.

But more so it’s the gravitas, the horrorshow, the heft, the drastic real-life poignancy of the loss of old European security. Forever everyone has remarked — most recently, the poet known by the nickname Biggie — that things done changed, but the change experienced by Zweig, Vienna, and Europe in general from the 1890s to 1939 is drastic. Zweig’s storytelling skills make it all seem like a consistent forward flow into the abyss — the days of security and complacency and the primacy of art, lit, music, and theater, give way to enthusiasm for the first World War (a completely unnecessary consequence of international saber-rattling/posturing) to post-war horrors, poverty, runaway inflation, to a period of experimentation and youthful reflowering coinciding with a rage for order that leads to protofascist glimmerings, brownshirts, the rise of the secretly well-funded National Socialists, political deceit, and crimes against humanity.

The Nazis are the antithesis of Zweig’s apolitical pan-European humanism. He’s able to write a letter to his number one fan in Italy (Mussolini) to get someone’s sentence lightened, but he can’t change history once it’s goosestepping toward Hades. He retreats, goes into exile, and writes biographies subtly critiquing the contemporary political situation. He works with Strauss who works with the Nazis — and Hitler himself even lets an opera with a libretto written by the Jew Zweig be performed. (It rarely comes up, but Zweig is a totally assimilated Viennese Jew.) He didn’t collaborate with the Nazis so much as try to preserve the primacy of art when faced with deathheads.

It’s the sort of book that makes you aware of the sweep of history we’ve lived through — the comparatively quiet yet totally disruptive technological revolution of the past 17 years or so, the artistic and cultural plate tectonics that slowly but surely rearrange the continents over time. I read this purposefully before reading The Collected Stories of Stefan Zweig and I’m glad I did. I look forward to seeing echoes of everything covered in this memoir in his fiction, and I’ll also probably get to a biography about him to learn a bit about his personal life.

Zweig doesn’t have the reputation of Mann and Musil or Proust or those early 20th century uberdogs, and that’s most likely because he’s a centrist who’s so very balanced aesthetically and intellectually. Also, unlike Mann and Musil, his books were suppressed and/or burned and therefore unread in Germany for a while there. His writing and thinking are so accessible and he sold millions of copies as a result but he never dumbs things down. The few pages where he talks about his writing process were illuminating: he apparently wrote 800 pages and whittled them to the 200 necessary pages, always interested in pace, since he identified himself as a restless reader.

Anyway, can’t recommend this one more highly.

(Note: I’ve recommended this directly to two people, and both really disliked it. One was the bartender at a bar I used to go to in South Philly who had said he was really into WWII-related books, and the other was my wife more recently who thought it was weak and quit on it right quick. <<Shruggies!>>)

The Struggle with the Daemon: Hölderlin, Kleist, Nietzsche
Translated by Cedar and Eden Paul

The take-home message is read everything Zweig ever wrote. Jeez. Such flowing, insightful, lucid prose, like a faucet streaming graceful intelligence across and down the pages. A good book for melancholic seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness.

Hölderlin the ethereal poet, Kleist the restless exaggerator, Nietzsche the inspired light. Totally compelling across the board biographical essays on creative genius and madness. Goethe comes up all the time as a sort of rational gubernatorial foil to these inspired/possessed folks. Like all psych portraiture, the fun part is self-IDing shared traits. In each case, Zweig writes about them because they’re off-the-chart extremes — and again (I’m thinking of Bernhard’s “art of exaggeration” in Extinction) it’s exaggeration that always seems so essential for powerful creation, as long as it’s hyper-truthful. More true than truth.

Zweig’s portraits are exaggerated most likely too — these guys come off as legends, mystics, saints, proto tragic rock stars. But never did I think he was overdoing it, or maybe every once in a while when talking about Nietzsche. But again the thing I’ll most remember about this one is that it will lead me to read all of Zweig (particularly his biographies) and Kleist and most of Nietzsche. Hölderlin doesn’t interest me too much, although I may have enjoyed his section the most.

Anyway, a great literary biography — recommended to anyone frazzled by trying to write etc. Interesting that for so many writers I know it’s not a spiritual struggle so much as a struggle for a shred of success, struggles regarding whether or not to self-promote, self-publish, sell-out and write something that (as Bill Hicks says) sucks Satan’s cock — it’s refreshing therefore to read about these writers’ old-fashioned struggles with art and inspiration.

Confusion
Translated by Anthea Bell

Said something like oh man that’s awesome when I finished (owing more to the final half-page chapter than the entire novella) but it also sometimes felt melodramatic, sensationalist, hysterical — a review I read calls Zweig a watered-down Proust or Stendhal but that doesn’t hold water for me since the passionate tilt-a-whirl overwrought feints and parries in the French biggies are pronounced and dramatized to the extreme whereas here they’re glossed over by Zweig’s essayistic instinct, his graceful, flowing summary.

I can’t think of another novella from 1927 in which the narrator admits that he’s essentially in love with the mind of a male teacher — and that toward the end so explicitly treats of early 1900s gay life in Berlin, particularly derision, oppression, blackmail, unsavory clandestine spasms in alleys etc. The love triangle among wife of professor, charismatic professor, and hot young passionate student narrator isn’t fleshed out enough? Swimming scenes seemed muted, even when a slip of tit made its PG-13 appearance. But the prose soars when it’s totally platonic and the professor dictates his long repressed work on Shakespeare to the narrator.

Zweig, becoming a great favorite, excels when describing ecstatic intellectual paroxysms. But he’s becoming a favorite more so for perfectly phrased insight. Although in many ways unlike Musil’s The Confusions of Young Törless, which predates this by ~21 years, I think it’s safe to associate them thanks to the shared academic setting, “Confusion” in the title, pre-Nazi era, and man-on-man action/passion.

Journey Into the Past
Translated by Anthea Bell

Another flowing, perfectly phrased, psychologically and historically charged, emotionally moving novella by Zweig, this time about life before, during, and after WWI as Nazi shadows gather. About thwarted desire, great physical distance followed by insurmountable temporal distance, lives interrupted by war, the pleasures of memory over the anxieties of the present, especially when the present involves goose-stepping rows of uniformed men parading through a quiet college town, Heidelberg, which I’ve visited and could imagine as clearly as Zweig’s prose portrayed the path to the castle and the view of the river valley.

Looks like I’ll have to read everything available in English by him. Words to describe his prose are watery, liquidy, silken, flowing, light-handed, almost always sliding ahead as a result of expectations in a sentence loaded toward its start. But also the language disappears and conveys real insight and atmosphere and psychological and emotional urgency and moral sense.

Great stuff, Stefan — too bad you snuffed yourself at 60! This edition sandwiches the long story with two excellent little biographical essays. Might read the story again since it’s formally exemplary, I’d say. Seems so simple and smooth and subtle without ever being elusive or arch or clever. Honest, respectful, deeply imagined urgency.

Montaigne
Translated by Will Stone

Zweig is the best. Secular humanism uber alles! Great to return to him and think the same general thought: I need to read everything he’s written, particularly these short biographies. This is a step in that direction. It’s really a pretty slight but insightful/enjoyable rundown of Montaigne’s life, paralleled by Zweig’s own. Zweig wrote this in Brazil shortly before he killed himself with his second wife, exiled from the irretrievably ruined European culture he thrived in and treated like his true religion.

I haven’t read Montaigne, though I’ve tried and will surely try again soon. Interesting bits: he flees the plague that kills half of Bordeaux’s 34K population, he essentially self-publishes his essays, he travels for nearly two years at age 48 to get away from all the demands of family and land ownership and while away is named mayor without running for office, he essentially locks himself in a tower with a view of his inherited estate and writes, trying to get as close as possible to the core of his life (I’ve used that phrase before writing about Knausgaard) yet he doesn’t consider himself a writer. His mother comes from a Spanish Jewish family, yet he doesn’t talk about her at all. As a child his father immersed him in Latin to such a degree (all caregivers and teachers only spoke it) that it was his true first language.

But the real power of this, what sustains it through its 115 pages (first 35 pages is an introduction) is the parallel Zweig draws right away between his time (the unimaginable brutalities of the Nazi rise and WWII) and Montaigne’s time, which offered sufficient horrific slaughter, with a sort of civil war descending into what Zweig calls (deploying a typically perfect Zweig-type phrase) “a vortex of pandemonium,” totally lawless criminality run rampant etc. During such a time, how do you protect yourself from contracting some terrible infection of the soul? Montaigne and Zweig inculcate themselves, fighting the battle the only way they really can: internally, waging a sort of soul battle against the incursions of immorality run amok.

But the really interesting thing was to read the opening as Zweig parallels his own time with Montaigne’s time, thinking all the time of course about our own time, its particular nastiness — really bad, so bad, bad! Thankfully little books like this, beautifully published by Pushkin Press (French flaps, textured covers, thick bright pages), disperse readers across centuries of struggles, most of which seem far worse than anything we face now, which is good to keep in mind since, despite the general gist of protecting oneself from the forces of idiocy and evil all around, these guys aren’t exactly role models — it’s probably not a good idea for everyone to hide away in a tower writing essays about what they know or to light out for South America and ultimately end themselves before seeing the resolution of an era’s nasty issues. But still totally worth the few hours reading and a reminder that things have always been simultaneously good and bad, undulating for the most part between either extreme for all time.

*

To support the kind publishers who have taken a chance on my writing, please acquire a copy of Neutral Evil ))) and/or JRZDVLZ. 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).



Thomas Bernhard and the Comedy of Contempt: Leeching the Seething in One Long Paragraph

Note: Barrelhouse first published this essay (in somewhat different form) in 2014, in their Issue 13, a few months after publishing Thanks + Sorry + Good Luck: Rejection Letters from Eyeshot Outbox, about two years before New Directions published my translation of Horacio Castellanos Moya’s Revulsion: Thomas Bernhard in San Salvador.

It surprised me how many happy vocalizations I emitted the first time I read Thomas Bernhard. The blurbs on my University of Chicago Press paperback had mentioned nary a chortle!

  • “In its obsessive, elegant rhythms and narrative eloquence, it resembles a tragic aria by Richard Strauss.”
  • “The great pessimist–rhapsodist of German literature . . . never compromises, never makes peace with life . . . Only in the pure, fierce isolation of his art can he get justice.”
  • “In his work, the nihilism of this century found its most uncompromising expression.”

I loved the repetitive ranting. I laughed at controlled theme/variation ranting about suicide in Woodcutters and The Loser more than when I read writers or watched television considered funny. The vocab also made me laugh, repetition of words like ruthless, relentless, obliterated, annihilated.
         
It’s difficult to scan Woodcutters for a representative passage that isn’t many lines long and comes off as funny out of context. It’s not like Bernhard delivers one-liners and zingers—there’s an accretive quality to the “humor”—but here’s a quotation that comes close:

“Vienna is a terrible machine for the destruction of genius, I thought, sitting in the wing chair, an appalling recycling plant for the demolition of talent.”

Compared to what I’d been reading circa 2001–2004 (George Saunders, T.C. Boyle, et al.) lines like these, slightly repeated and varied, seemed liberating, if not exactly hilarious. At the time, like fighting fire with fire, such negativity may have served as an antidote to airborne toxins expelled during George W. Bush’s first term. All of which somehow made me laugh.
           
Knockdown

He doesn’t resemble conventional comic writers on the surface but Bernhard sets ‘em up and knocks ‘em down just the same. The setup creates an expectation the knockdown undermines. The setup enters the recipient as an airy expectation that a sudden energy shift expels as a laugh. The setup Bernhard wallops involves the formal contrivances and expectations of conventional contemporary American literary fiction, the scenes involving familiar characters walking around indirectly talking about longing and loss, with their speech ensnared by quotation marks, with paragraph breaks, space breaks, chapter breaks, section breaks, the whole rise and fall (“arc”). Such an all-encompassing thematic/stylistic punch line is essentially set up by everything little baby Stewie satirizes on “The Family Guy” when discussing the dog Brian’s novel. Now imagine an entire 150-page, single-spaced novel of Stewie in the form of a smarter Austrian depressive berating a Brian who represents everything crappy about life on Earth.            

“How’s that novel you’ve been working on for three years? Got a compelling protagonist? An obstacle for him to overcome? Nice little narrative? Beginning, middle, and end? Some friends become enemies, some enemies become friends? At the end your main character is richer for the experience?”


Frustrated Idealism

Giddiness rose in me when I first read Bernhard in part because, despite rage and bile and darkness, his narrators never lose their shit. Their impeccably ordered prose feels organic and individuated and never rigid. It’s natural and flowing yet structured, an improvised fugue, a style with antecedents (some say Beckett, others say Walser) but never so exaggerated as in Bernhard. The style accounts in part for the humor but LOLs and other vocalizations are also compelled of course by the content.
           
A Bernhard narrator is a frustrated idealist releasing acerbic thoughts in something like a long, detoxifying therapy session with himself, not seeming to worry about how his thoughts are received. I had expected these novels to blacken bright days, but the meticulous, flowing language mainlining an obsessive’s agitated consciousness suggested a fantasy rant in which I let loose on everyone/everything that came within the crosshairs of my own frustrated idealism. Particularly in later books like Extinction, the narrator (mostly) spews dark ideation but never froths at the mouth or lapses into absurd divergence — a model for the psychological and emotional extirpation of bullshit. If you’ve ever giggled evilly after blurting something you shouldn’t have said aloud, you can relate.
           
In a controlled mode of attack, Bernhard takes off the gloves of civility to reveal the claws of what he really thinks. He goes for the eyes of the world, and does so not because of some typically Austrian version of Generalized Rage Disorder or simple sour grapes or an attempt to avenge a perceived insult. He does it because, when it comes to art and life and self, his narrators are Total Raging Idealists.

Key lines in the last pages of Wittgenstein’s Nephew:

“He both loved and hated nature, just as he loved and hated art, and loved and hated human beings with equal passion and equal ruthlessness.”

The Bernhard narrator fills the space between conceived Ideal and perceived Real, between love and hate, passion and ruthlessness with 150-page paragraph-less sheets of organically ordered sentences that flow across and down the page, that seem at best like buzzsaws downing towering conceptions of society and text.

Infectious Phrases

All of which sounds very nice but those who spend too much time with Bernhard are often in some trouble if they value their so-called happiness. Prolonged exposure to Bernhard leads to silent composition of gracefully modulated rants, statements phrased and rephrased, with certain key phrases italicized for emphasis. In fact, all those exposed to Bernhard’s prose are in danger of contracting a virulent language virus that presents in the reader as silent composition of organically ordered statements phrased and rephrased, with certain key phrases emphasized as motifs. The Bernhardian rant is a fugue that seems improvised and may have been improvised upon composition but has been worked until its final presentation in print seems organized and controlled. Certain key phrases, oft repeated, are like buoys in the whitewater of his sentences. In the agitated surf of his repetitions, certain key phrases provide a moment of respite, a safe base for a second until the sentence proceeds. Certain key phrases, in short, behave as rests, as silences in effect, and this approach is virulent because it mimics patterns of thought in the heads of obsessives ranting about everything they consider contemptuous, obsessives whose thoughts churn around the axle of certain key phrases that undermine a conceived ideal of what the world should be. To turn again to the common ground of relatively contemporary televised animated entertainment, relentless/repetitive emphasis of certain key phrases I find funny the way I find it funny when Sideshow Bob in the “Cape Fear” episode of the Simpsons, in a gag that works the longer it goes on, repeatedly steps on the teeth of rakes, causing the handles to fly up and smash him in the face over and over again (~10×).

~ur-ugh-gah (~10x)

Over time I’ve also found it funny whenever I discover that Bernhard has infected another great writer. In an interview on Michael Silverblatt’s “Bookworm,” W.G. Sebald, a towering literary artist if ever there was one, a German who lived and taught along the eastern coast of England in East Anglia, revealed himself as “yet another follower of Bernhard,” which is most evident in Austerlitz, wherein two characters discuss an absent third who has committed suicide. William Gaddis, author of two twentieth-century American doorstops read by ambitious/precocious male writers in their twenties, The Recognitions and JR, struggled for twenty-something years on a third massive novel about the player piano until he read some Bernhard and wrote a Bernhardian rant about trying to write a massive novel about the player piano, Agapē Agape. And Geoff Dyer, expert amateur par excellence, has cited Bernhard as an influence for Out of Sheer Rage, a memoir of sorts about trying to write a book about D.H. Lawrence, a tactic derived from Bernhard’s Concrete, a book about trying to write a book on Mendelssohn.

World-Historical Heft

None of this sounds particularly funny, I realize. Correction involves building a giant cone in the middle of the forest for one’s sister, which seems like a funny premise in theory but in practice the cone in the forest is surrounded by three-hundred pages of Bernhardian madness, which is rational and exacting as it deploys successive layers of civilization to suppress asocial urges raging in the blood.
           
For the most part, the controlled madness of Bernhard’s narrators can be read as a critique of the author’s spatiotemporal origin (WWII-era Austria):

“A basic trait of this country’s population is the constant thought of suicide, they might be said to take pleasure in thinking constantly, steadily, without allowing anything to distract them, about how to do away with themselves at any time. It is their way of keeping their balance, I said, to think constantly about killing themselves without actually killing themselves.”

This controlled madness perceived in fellow Austrians he also sees in himself:

“Paul allowed himself to be utterly dominated by his madness, whereas I have never let myself be utterly dominated by my equally serious madness; one might say that he was taken over by his madness, whereas I have always exploited mine. Paul never controlled his madness, but I have always controlled mine—which possibly means that my madness is much madder than Paul’s.”

Controlled madness is an apt oxymoronic description for Bernhard’s approach. And such juxtapositions have also always been a comedic standby. YouTube vids abound of a scene in a film in which Hitler receives bad news and rants in apoplectic German as subtitles reveal that he’s super-pissed about a late-arriving pizza, farts, the iPad, DeSean Jackson’s glorious walk-off punt return against the Giants, and everything else inconsequential compared to failed plans for establishing that supreme example of controlled madness known as the Thousand-Year Reich.
           
The Holocaust was the most meticulous genocide ever — and a critique of the precise quantification of genocidal madness is suggested in the controlled madness of Bernhard’s prose. Thematic and stylistic audacity but also suggestion of serious world-historical heft (i.e., the relatively recent attempt to take over the world and exterminate/enslave all non-Aryans) release pressure caused by internalization of the enormity of what’s off-screen in his novels.
           
It’d be erroneous indeed to compare Bernhard with “Wedding Crashers.” But reading Bernhard somehow produces — for me at least — the sort of suddenly emitted vocalizations normally associated with the consumption of conventional American comedic entertainment. Which is amazing?

The (Likeable) Art of Exaggeration 

At first after reading Bernhard I thought I’d discovered a model for exaggerated/intelligent invective, an improvement upon Céline’s comparatively tame Journey to the End of the Night. I found Bernhard useful as I became more immersed in the so-called Literary World, especially as I started and finished an MFA and subsequently failed to attract literary-agent or small-press interest in a few novels and a story collection completed over the course of a decade.
           
With expectations dangerously raised, as I was repeatedly bashed in the face by the rakes of kind declines, Bernhard’s exaggerated monologues served as a palliative. If one exaggerates expectations, one can’t help but be let down, and since Bernhard’s narrators are extreme idealists and master exaggerators, they’re pretty much screwed, and therefore serve as therapeutic models for those with dashed expectations. Consider this longish passage from the end of Extinction:

I’ve cultivated the art of exaggeration to such a pitch that I can call myself the greatest exponent of the art that I know of . . . I was the greatest artist I knew in the field of exaggeration . . . But of course this too is an exaggeration, I realize as I come to write it down—a typical instance of my art of exaggeration. The art of exaggeration is the art of tiding oneself over existence, of making one’s existence endurable, even possible . . . Those who are most successful at tiding themselves over existence have always been the great exaggerators. Whatever they were, whatever they achieved, they owed solely to the art of exaggeration. The painter who doesn’t exaggerate is a poor painter, the musician who doesn’t exaggerate is a poor musician . . . With some, of course, the art of exaggeration consists in understating everything, in which case we have to say that they exaggerate understatement, that exaggerated understatement is their particular version of the art of exaggeration. Exaggeration is the secret of great art . . . and of great philosophy. The art of exaggeration is in fact the secret of all mental endeavor.

All life will be suffering if, as in Extinction, all writing fails to attain the level of Kafka (“even Thomas Mann and Musil in every line they wrote let themselves be dominated by three-ring binders”), just as all cities will underwhelm if compared to Rome, just as all music will fail to match Glenn Gould’s “piano radicalism,” just as all people will pretty much suck if compared to Extinction’s Uncle Georg, who introduced the narrator to “literature and opened it up as an infinite paradise.”
           
It’s this extreme, unrelenting, exaggerated demand for not just simple excellence but the finest achievements of humanity (the infinite paradise of lit) that makes Bernhard’s narrators likeable: “. . . as I see it only the highest can bring real satisfaction.”
           
Bernhard’s narrators could easily seem like elitist shits but instead are likeable because 1) they have exaggerated ideals when it comes to life and art, and 2) these exaggerated ideals produce exaggerated textual manifestations of suffering, which may come off as funny since the narrators aren’t dying of terminal illness but instead suffer from self-inflicted spiritual wounds caused by intolerance when it comes to others’ so-called taste.

Accounting for Taste

Taste is expertise developed through the cultivation of native and acquired sensibilities. But it seems like whenever someone suggests something like this, they’re shat upon from a great height by everyone with internet access.
           
Novelist J. Robert Lennon, for example, stated in an early 2013 post on Salon that “most contemporary literature is terrible: mannered, conservative, and obvious.” He concluded “let’s face it: literary fiction is fucking boring,” after suggesting that writing students would be better off paying attention to the world (“read instruction manuals, legal documents, restaurant reviews, and corporate newsletters” and “have lots of intense and ridiculous conversations with drunk people”) instead of immersing themselves in such crap.
           
Lennon’s statements triggered Twitter rebuttal I mostly ignored since it seemed like another opportunity for instantaneous commentary from omnipresent submediocrities online, humorless types whose literary careers have progressed largely because they’ve used social media to establish a network of friends/followers who “like” their posts and retweet their tweetage. But after Lennon tossed a little stone into the pond, the subsequent rippling of outrage and triage made me wonder what Thomas Bernhard might have made of the Lit World as it’s currently expressed on Twitter.

The Litter

Writing is one thing, reading is another, but the Literary Twitter is something else. At best it’s an improvised, collective, ever-updating fount of news, knowledge, and wit. At worst, it’s a column of ice chipped at by the axes of cutely compressed links to the world’s ever-expanding online literary content; endless self-promotion and sycophantic promotion of others; quipped opinion regarding live televised events (cable TV dramas, disasters du jour); public conversations better served by texts unread by thousands of strangers; declamations upon the craft of writing and everything else (as though there were anything else, ha ha ha); lesser-known writers retweeting better-known writers hoping to gain better-known writers’ favor; middling writers retweeting publicity staff hyping middling reviews in middling publications of middling novels; writers offering mash-up puns of canonical novel titles; writers tweeting daily pics of their word count function on their latest novel manuscripts; the whole damn #amwriting thing; pretentious young writers pitching surreal/absurdist novels or films or products or outerspace expeditions; famous novelists tweeting insights ripped from novels published long ago that no one reads anymore; writers with their Goodreads accounts synched with their Twitter so everyone can see they’ve given five stars to some non-fiction anthology published by their friends; writers who’ve tweeted nearly 50K times proclaiming their gratitude for writing and reading on the day of a domestic terrorist event; writers playing nice in the character-restricted sandbox but rarely letting loose and saying exactly what they think, that is unless their handle is @breteastonellis.


No Compassion

Thomas Bernhard as I imagine him on Twitter would defend against idiocy in all its forms, an avenging/guardian angel of invective, presenting unabashedly uncivilized commentary in sophisticatedly phrased tweets and comments that seem shamelessly thick-skinned when of course his skin is thin or else he wouldn’t register an army of Lit Shit encroaching upon the garrison of his ideals, a glittering city on a hill surrounded by heathens loading catapults with soul-sucking tweets, the character-restricted excrescence of a literary culture consisting of promotion and cronyism and tired bougie considerateness and/or mild condescension at most, all of which combines to smell like the sweat of something essentially human degraded thanks to overexposure to the scent of its own stink.
           
@ThomasBernhard—a demigod always at arms online, ready to attack idiotic tweets and tweet totalizing statements that identify an ideal by outlining its negative image—is wish fulfillment. For those suffering from the possession of highfalutin ideals, their protection from assaultive forces (be it mass-produced mediocrity or whatever else that grinds one’s gears) is essential.
           
Maybe what we need now is a model for scorn, disdain and contempt to overcome the civility and competence of the online hordes, whose catchphrase so often these days seems to be compassion. In her essay “On the Nature and Aim of Fiction,” Flannery O’Connor states: “So many people can now write competent stories that the short story is in danger of dying of competence.” Folks now treat her as a saint, but omnipresent sub-mediocrities freak when J. Robert Lennon states that “MFA programs  . . . have had the effect of rendering a lot of lousy writers borderline-competent, and many of these competent writers get stories and books published.”
           
Compassion, as it’s currently used in a literary context, has become a tepid if not yet noxious trend that Flannery O’Connor also identified in her day:

“It’s considered an absolute necessity these days for writers to have compassion. Compassion is a word that sounds good in anybody’s mouth and which no book jacket can do without. It is a quality which no one can put his finger on in any exact critical sense, so it is safe for anybody to use. Usually I think what is meant by it is that the writer excuses all human weakness because human weakness is human. The kind of hazy compassion demanded of the writer now makes it difficult for him to be anti-anything.

From “Some Aspects of the Grotesque in Southern Fiction” [1960]

As an artistic practice it’s possible that compassion produces weaker work than does contempt? Compassion and contempt both derive from the same perception of something or someone seeming off. Etymologically, compassion approaches someone/something “with suffering” whereas contempt does so “with scorn,” although I’d also emphasize the tempest I sense in the word (“with storm”).

A Storm of Shit

Maybe I’ll load tweetable sentences from the end of Bernhard’s last novel, Extinction, into an automated tweeter thingy configured to expel a shitstorm of Bernhard pronouncements on such a regular basis that I inundate the handful who follow my recently reborn electronic evangelical outreach and interaction activities (@leeklein0) [note: indefinitely deactivated this “X” account in early 2025 after Musk’s Nazi salutes and related pro-Nazi posts there] with refreshing, revitalizing literary ideation like:

  • “I detest the majority of writers.”
  • “I can’t imagine anything worse than meeting a writer and sharing a table with him.”
  • “Writers are on the whole the most repulsive people.”
  • “Low, vulgar, stupid individuals who have attained a degree of literary fame but whose company I can do without because they have nothing to offer me but their mediocrity.”
  • “[Writers] are all basically simple-minded, like the books they write and put on the market.”
  • “We pretend we’re capable of the very highest achievement, but can’t even write down a word of the unique and tremendous work that we’ve just announced.”

I include that last one since it’s surely easier to wield a great hate, pretend to revel in an evil alternate world dominated by antisocial media, and ruthlessly and relentlessly obliterate and annihilate everyone and everything than it is to create something that meets and exceeds one’s ideals. Creating something worthwhile instead of destroying everything worthless is 1) no laughing matter and 2) so challenging that all one can really do is laugh, which maybe is why I — irrelevant submediocrity that I am — have found Bernhard so funny? What seems at first like destruction is really creation of the highest order?
           
So the moral of the story is something like this: if ever so worked up that you feel the need to harm someone or something physically or emotionally, you’re better off settling down with some Bernhard. Let him leech the seething out of you before you start researching literal and figurative pressure cookers.

For what it’s worth, the Boston Marathon Bombing occurred during the writing of this essay. Tamerlan Tsarnaev’s Amazon wish list included books about ID forging, fraud, organized crime, and voice lessons, but not a single volume of Bernhard. It’s possible of course that no Bernhard titles appeared on his Amazon wish list because Tamerlan had already read them all, but for the purposes of the conclusion of this essay the suggestion is clear: if Tamerlan and Dzhokhar had read Bernhard, the Boston Marathon Bombing would not have happened.

Similarly, if you read Bernhard, it’s possible that imagining @ThomasBernhard may help you from freaking out when exposed to online and offline obscenities not as easily ignored.

It’s a basic algebraic principle: when you multiply a negative by a negative, the product is positive.

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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. 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).

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).