This novel was a very rewarding left turn for me. I’d been solemnly poring over a bunch of nonfiction and then pow! Colson Whitehead tells me a serious story.
It’s an extended parable about race relations, corporate culture, consumerism, and social change, conveyed by the adventures of a marketing genius with a stubbed toe. The protagonist is an expert namer (”nomenclature consultant” in the delicious corporate-speak of the book) who, many have observed, remains unnamed himself. He is dispatched to a small Midwestern town to settle its brand identity crisis. A bizarre and fabulous plot; bonus the digressive lingering on phonetics, the apex of such exercise being a rhapsody on the word apex itself. Double bonus the depiction of a public library in, er, transition (it’s being displaced by a crap chain clothing shop) and riffs on “Marian the Librarian.”
Exquisite snark:
On the rare occasions that he entered libraries, he always felt assured of his virtue. If they figured out how to distill essence of library into a convenient delivery system—a piece of gum or a gelcap, for example—he would consume it eagerly, relieved to be finished with more taxing methods of virtue gratification. (92)
Random awesome punch:
No, Albie’s wife hadn’t taken everything in the divorce. She had left him his inappropriate emotional reactions to small things. (79)
I can’t resist a one-two:
Lily Peet-Esposito, a half-pint brunette from down South, whose true personality kicked in after three drinks, and who was a connoisseur of jokes describing the cultural misunderstandings that arose when religious leaders of different faiths unexpectedly found themselves on life rafts and desert islands. (173)
My introduction to Whitehead, on a tip from a very literate colleague. Now I’m eager to read The Intuitionist, his debut novel about, um, elevator inspectors.
They said it better:
New York Times
The Onion A.V. Club
I feel as if I shouldn’t be allowed to comment without using excessive, redundant verbage (there was that enough that I can get away with normal writing for the rest of my comment?) but really am not thinking clearly enough for that. Your description of this book when we talked the other night was great but I love seeing the excerpts now! Maybe you should start a book-reviewer career? A job requiring you to read….I like that idea.
Poring over NON-Fiction? That would, uh, be, like, engaging in the actual real world? Dude, I say, run, RUN to your nearest book lender and be saved. Wait, I forget that you are suffering the crippling arch nemesis issue. So limp to the nearest repository of reading and get the next fiction.
Frankly, your foray into fiction sounds way too real world. I, on the other hand, am living in a book. Whose story is about living in a book. Whose story unfolds in a fantasy land created by the words of the author and brought to life by the oral skills of Silvertongue. (Takes me to places…ok, I’ll be prudent) who in the Inkworld is the Bluejay. To his beloved daughter, he is still Mo. Mortimer the book binder of antique treasures in leather rises within the Inkworld to the dizzying and dangerous heights of outlaw rogue saving the children and widows.
Inkheart. Inkspell. Inkdeath. Bless Carolyn Funke in whose name I am wallowing for the original, auf Deutsch (in the hands of the Germanophone scientist), and in translation for the anglophones amongst us. You have to love words with 3 consonants in a row, don’t you? Just let it roll off your tongue: amongst. gst. Maybe because it sounds like angst.
Fiction. Fantasy. Other places. Run. Run fast. Run far. Take tea.