Filed under: Book Reviews, Horror, Literary Fiction | Tags: book reviews, books, colson whitehead, horror, literature, zombies, zone one
Colson Whitehead manages the seemingly impossible in Zone One, injecting the zombie novel with a literary bent. He takes this idea of the undead, the afterlife taken to its most gruesome conclusion, and uses it as a filter to look at a city, to look at the people who survived the apocalypse (or rather, the people who have survived longer than the others have), to look at the reasons for their survival, and to examine what hope means when there seems little reason to hope. What’s more, in doing these things he makes them seem obvious – how did no one think, sooner than this, to do with zombies what Whitehead has done so well in Zone One?
As it opens, the novel is almost a love affair with New York City, with “Mark Spitz” (a nickname, but the only way we know our main character) looking back on visits to his uncle and the ever-changing city. This image of New York, of wreckage followed by new buildings, again and again, are eerily prescient of the later images of the zombies walking the New York streets, apparently capable not only of endless arrival but of endless development. This early image of New York, though, retains a sort of quiet beauty in its vision of endless restructuring:
In every neighborhood the imperfect in their fashion awaited the wrecking ball and their bones were melted down to help their replacements surpass them, steel into steel. The new buildings in wave upon wave drew themselves out of rubble, shaking off the past like immigrants. The addresses remained the same and so did the flawed philosophies. It wasn’t anyplace else. It was New York City. (6)
The world Mark Spitz inhabits, a New York that’s been decimated and cleared of its former inhabitants, a New York that has been divided into zones now being painstakingly cleared of “skels” (the zombies) and “stragglers,” who aren’t quite zombies but exist in some nether world, standing motionless at some post they’ve selected for reasons Spitz and his compatriots will never be able to understand, is one with moments of hope. Though Spitz suspects the world has been left with only the people who were mediocre in their former lives (like him, whose “most appropriate designation” in a high school yearbook “would have been Most Likely Not to Be Named the Most Likely Anything” ), and though his life at the moment consists of little but walking through building after building, seeking the stragglers missed by the marines who did the first run-through of Zone One, he also finds some cause to hope for a better world as a result of the crushing defeat of the former system. Brief as these moments may be, Whitehead’s vision of the indominatibility of both human hope and despair is powerful:
There was a single Us now, reviling a single Them. Would the old bigotries be reborn as well, when they cleared out this Zone, and the next, and so on, and they were packed together again, tight and suffocating on top on each other? Or was that particular bramble of animosities, fears, and envies impossible to recreate? If they could bring back paperwork, Mark Spitz thought, they could certainly reanimate prejudice, parking tickets, and reruns. (231)
Whitehead occasionally uses this zombie plague as an opportunity to comment on these issues of race and class and the bigotries humans can’t seem to help holding. He’s never heavy-handed with this, though, and the New York Mark Spitz is working in now is at times crushing for the ways it is similar to the previous world, and the ways in which it is different. Though Spitz and the others trying to clear Zone One of skels and stragglers are, on paper, the survivors of the old order, Whitehead suggests, too, that the skels are blindly keeping that old world alive, that in them you can see some true New York story.
The damned bubbled and frothed on the most famous street in the world, the dead things still proudly indicating, despite their grime and wounds and panoply of leaking orifices, the tribes to which they had belonged, in gray pin-striped suits, classic rock T-shirts, cowboy boots, dashikis, striped cashmere cardigans, fringed suede vests, plush joggings suits. What they had died in. All the misery of the world channeled through this concrete canyon, the lament into which the human race was being transformed person by person. Every race, color, and creed was represented in this congregation that funneled down the avenue. As it had been before, per the myth of this melting-pot city. The city did not care for your story, the particular narrative of your reinvention; it took them all in, every immigrant in their strivings, regardless of bloodline, the identity of their homeland, the number of coins in their pocket. Nor did this plague discriminate; your blood fell instantly or your blood held out longer, but your blood always failed in the end. (243)
Zone One is an extraordinary novel, one of those rare concerted mashups of literary and genre fiction that doesn’t cheapen either genre but rather brings both to new heights. Whitehead’s zombies are zombies, literally, but they are also a marker of something else – of the way the things and stories we hope to bury have a way of endlessly renewing themselves.
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Filed under: Book Reviews, Commercial Fiction, Literary Fiction, Mystery & Thriller | Tags: book reviews, books, crime novels, dennis lehane, literature, mystery, mystic river, reading
Dennis Lehane’s novels may be shelved in the crime section, but what you begin to sense as you read his fiction is that many of his overarching concerns – in family, in community, and in how people use these things to define themselves and their decisions – would be at home in the “literary fiction” genre. To point this out isn’t to suggest that literary fiction is “better” than crime novels, but rather to say that Lehane is an extraordinary writer producing works that are at once accessible, plot-driven, and thought-provoking.
Mystic River is his best novel to date. Hand this one to anyone who speaks about genre fiction with their nose in the air and you’ll have a convert to the world of mass market paperbacks. Mystic River is as well-plotted as any of Lehane’s Kenzie & Gennaro detective novels, but because he follows his three main characters from youth he is able to explore more deeply those issues of community that have appeared in his other works.
Mystic River opens in 1975, with three friends who will in time be divided by community (who’s from the Point? who’s from the Flats?), differences of personality, and what happens when one of them, Dave Boyle, gets into a car driven by “policemen” who are in fact child molesters. After Dave escapes his captors, we leave them until 2000. All three remain in Boston: Dave, married with a child; Sean, a police officer separated from his wife; and Jimmy, an ex-con whose daughter is murdered the same night Dave comes home to his wife covered in blood, claiming to have been mugged.
Lehane’s narrative loops us back in history, pointing to the ways long-ago events (not just the day Dave got into the car when the other two boys wouldn’t, but Jimmy’s two-year sentence for robbery and what got him there) color seemingly unrelated moments in the present. Near novel’s end Jimmy reflects on the karmic nature of his daughter’s death, how her seemingly random murder can in some way be viewed as the only natural response to something Jimmy did shortly after his long-ago release from prison.
Lehane’s skill lies not only in carefully plotting so that these loopings through time and history read as naturally as actual events, but in fully exploring his characters’ motivations and the ways they’ve been formed. There’s Dave, who initially seems not greatly affected by his molestation as an eleven-year-old, but who, as novel progresses, reveals himself to be a scarred and flawed man seeking some form of redemption; Sean, who is unable to let go of his pride to find a way to get back the wife who left him a year earlier, and who has to investigate the lives of two childhood friends; and Jimmy, whose grief over his daughter’s death is coupled with a desire for some revenge, as well as a redemption for his community.
After Jimmy’s daughter, Katie, is found murdered after a night out, the police speak to Dave Boyle only because he happened to be in one of the bars she visited with her friends. Long before Jimmy begins to suspect that Dave was involved in Katie’s murder, Lehane reveals the ways Dave’s seeing Katie is painful, somehow wrong, to Jimmy:
It was this knowledge – that someone other than Jimmy possessed an image of Katie that postdated Jimmy’s own – that had finally allowed him to weep in the first place. (263)
Although we see Jimmy’s grief for his daughter, it’s the married couples that gain most of Lehane’s attention, and where we see the most powerful relationships taking place. Jimmy and Annabeth compare themselves to Dave and his wife, Celeste; they are able to mark themselves as different, better, than the other couple, because of the strength of their belief in one another.
No character in Mystic River is entirely clean or free of blame in either Katie’s death or Dave Boyle’s story. Lehane explores their degrees of guilt without judgement, and while the characters pass judgement on one another there is little temptation for the reader to do the same. Lehane writes, as ever, about deeply flawed individuals who are trying to somehow better themselves and their worlds. Lehane suggests, at the same moment, that there is little possibility of his characters escaping their pasts and their communities, and that these ties and faults are what make them worth knowing.
Filed under: Story Sundays | Tags: daniel orozco, literature, orientation, reading, short stories
Story Sundays is a weekly feature at Fat Books & Thin Women. Always short stories, always ones available online for free.
Daniel Orozco’s “Orientation” is a compact and perfect example of what a short story can do. In format, the story is similar to one featured here a few months ago, John Jodzio’s “This is All the Orientation You Are Gonna Get”: a monologue directed at a new employee. Orozco’s picture of the office is spot-on and sometimes hilarious for how clearly it highlights the miseries (and endless minutia) of office work:
If you must make an emergency phone call, ask your supervisor first. If you can’t find your supervisor, ask Phillip Spiers, who sits over there. He’ll check with Clarissa Nicks, who sits over there. If you make an emergency phone call without asking, you may be let go.
Orozco captures, too, the tendency of office-ese to verge into redundancy or meaninglessness:
We have our Biannual Fire Drill twice a year, and our Annual Earthquake Drill once a year.
In reviewing the office’s employees, though, there’s a certain sadness, a sense of all that goes unsaid and unknown at the office; everyone seems to be in love with someone else, who is barely aware of their existence. Orozco has his narrator review these hoped-for romances and personal problems in the same tone as he goes over copy machine etiquette. In doing he highlights not just the divide between the bland standards of office life and how each person in that office considers his or her life, but the inevitable way those inner stories and longings are tamped down. These are stories and facts the narrator considers worthy of note, but no more so than any other detail of the office.
John LaFountaine, who sits over there, uses the women’s room occasionally. He says it is accidental. We know better, but we let it pass. John LaFountaine is harmless, his forays into the forbidden territory of the women’s room simply a benign thrill, a faint blip on the dull, flat line of his life.
“Orientation” is a five-minute read by turns funny and crushing and eerie. This office, this idea of knowing – but not really knowing – the people you work alongside of, will be familiar to anyone who’s ever faced a baffling list of rules regarding everything from bathroom breaks to using the office scanner.
Filed under: Book Reviews, Literary Fiction | Tags: book reviews, books, jeffrey eugenides, literary fiction, literature, the marriage plot
Jeffrey Eugenides’s The Marriage Plot is a good college novel. It’s a good novel about a few kids their first year out of school, and it’s a good novel about relationships and about, duh, “the marriage plot.” But it’s a novel that suffers for what we might expect it to be; however good Eugenides’s latest may be, it doesn’t, it can’t, approach the quality of Middlesex. Unfair as it may be to compare the novels, it’s impossible to read The Marriage Plot (just as it’s impossible to read The Virgin Suicides) without Eugenides’s best novel in mind.
The Marriage Plot opens on graduation day for Madeleine, an English major who wrote her senior thesis on the marriage plot. Though Madeleine may first appear in the novel a hungover disaster, it’s soon clear that her life, and the life of this novel, is going to follow the same topic as her senior thesis. Which of her two (unsuitable) suitors is she going to end up with? What does a contemporary novel, taking marriage as its theme, look like? Her two suitors, Mitchell and Leonard, appear on the periphery of her life when the novel opens, but it’s evident that Madeleine is going to go for one of the two. Mitchell, a friend who’s been in love with Madeleine for years, appears about as well suited to her as her (momentarily) ex-boyfriend, the unstable, recovering Lothario, Leonard.
The biggest problem with Eugindes’s novel isn’t that it pales in comparison to Middlesex, but that Madeleine as a character appears a shadow compared to Leonard and Mitchell. Mitchell is by far the most sympathetic and best developed character of the novel, and it’s his post-graudation year-long “journey of self-discovery” that forms the most enjoyable part of the novel. And unlike Madeleine and Leonard, Mitchell seems most out-of-place at Brown University, the most in awe of this world of assumed success (not to mention expensive clothes and ice cream). Visiting a friend’s home for the first time, Mitchell is overwhelmed by the offerings of their kitchen; in some way, Mitchell feels like our guide to this world, the one member of Eugenides’s group of characters who doesn’t quite belong in Madeleine’s circle.
He still remembered the thrill of it: coming down to the kitchen one morning, the majestic Hudson visible in the window, and opening the freezer to see the small round tub of exotically named ice cream. Not a greedy half gallon, as they had at Mitchell’s house in Michigan, not cheap ice milk, not vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry but a flavor he had never dreamed of before, with a name as lyrical as the Berryman poems he was reading for his American poetry class: rum raisin. Ice cream that was also a drink! In a precious pint-size container. Six of these lined up next to six bags of dark French roast Zabar’s coffee. What was Zabar’s? How did you get there? What was lox? Why was it orange? Did the Pleshettes really eat fish for breakfast? Who was Diaghilev? What was a gouache, a pentimento, a rugelach? Please tell me, Mitchell’s face silently pleaded throughout his visits. He was in New York, the greatest city in the world. He wanted to learn everything, and Larry was the guy who could teach him. (133)
Leonard doesn’t quite fit into Madeleine’s upper-crust world either, but there’s a sense that he could, if not for his mental illness. Eugenides does an extraordinary job following Leonard over the course of the novel, his collapses and recoveries, his attempts to self-medicate and how his illness influences his feelings for Madeleine. Though Leonard is presented, from Mitchell’s view, as a womanizing asshole who doesn’t deserve Madeleine, he emerges later in the novel as a profoundly decent person who may not deserve Madeleine but recognizes his failure to be what he should be.
Madeleine, though, remains an enigma. We see her largely through the eyes of her two suitors, and when a section of the novel is told from her point of view, it’s not about her life as much as it is about her life with Leonard, or her lack of a life with Mitchell. Although Mitchell’s college memories of Madeleine are of someone determined not to marry, to find some independent course for her life, her actions point to a desire to define herself through her relationships. Madeleine may stay with Leonard during his bouts of illness, but she’s with him as much for duty as for love; it is, she seems to believe, what she is meant to do. That Eugenides based his entire novel around a character who only exists through the eyes of others is troubling, and points to some failure in the attempt to breathe new life into the marriage plot. He may take the plot on a different course at novel’s end, but The Marriage Plot remains a novel that views Madeleine as existing mostly for the benefit of the men surrounding her. And when Madeleine, at novel’s end, begins to take some more independent path – we think, we hope – it’s not because she realized the need to find her own way, but because Leonard and Mitchell each, independently, realized that Madeleine deserved to be on her own.
The Marriage Plot captures elements of the college experience, of intellectualizing our lives, of attempting to find ourselves through work and travel and relationships, more clearly and exactly than any other novel in recent memory. Where Eugenides fails is in having a main character who is nothing more than a canvas for men to project themselves onto. Madeleine exists not as a person in her own right, but as someone who offers to others a chance to better themselves, a chance for redemption. Eugenides may suggest that Madeleine’s bout with the marriage plot has led her to some understanding of the need for self-development and -discovery (following Mitchell’s path, in spirit if not in manner), but that remains only a suggestion, overshadowed by 400 pages of Madeleine living for everyone but herself.
Filed under: Book Reviews, Literary Fiction, Noir | Tags: book reviews, books, fatale, Jean-Patrick Machette, literature, noir, nyrb classics
If Jean-Patrick Machette’s Fatale represents the height of French noir (this is what the cover tells me) then, hell, I don’t want to read any more. The 90-page novella has its moments – at first there is an appeal to the inscrutable nature of the main character and killer, who we know only as Aimée, and moments verge on the comically absurd – but there is not enough plot or enough coloring of the scene to make this a rewarding read.
Fatale opens with Aimée murdering a man hunting in the woods, then follows her as she travels to her next town, Bléville, refashioning her image on the way. (Changing her hair color seems a standard post-job affair.) The translator’s notes make clear that there’s some meaning to the town’s name, which translates roughly to “Doughville.” Even before arriving Aimée views this town, picked at seeming random, as offering some unique money-making opportunities, a chance for a last big job before she retires. Her relationship with her chosen work and with money are the most interesting things about her character, as when she is traveling to Bléville with the payment from her last job:
She leaned over, still chewing, and opened the briefcase and pulled out fistfuls of banknotes and rubbed them against her sweat-streaked belly and against her breasts and her armpits and between her legs and behind her knees. Tears rolled down her cheeks even as she shook with silent laughter and kept masticating. She bent over to sniff the lukewarm choucroute, and she rubbed banknotes against her lips and teeth and raised her glass and dipped the tip of her nose in the champagne. And here in this luxury compartment of this luxury train her nostrils were assailed at once by the luxurious scent of the champagne and the foul odor of the filthy banknotes and the foul odor of the choucroute, which smelt like piss and sperm. (6-7)
Apart from this, Aimée reads as a dishearteningly one-dimensional character. There’s some reference to an earlier husband and an abusive relationship, but the novella offers no room to explore this history. (Nor is it certain that a novel two or three times the length of Fatale would ever get around to it, Aimée not seeming like a person who cares to reveal herself.) We’re informed that she’s killed seven men before arriving in Bléville, but there’s little to suggest how she came to commit murder for hire. We know only that Aimée doesn’t separate herself from her killings, that she likes to arrive in a town and insinuate herself into the social structure in order to learn who wants who dead; or who, perhaps, most deserves to be dead.
Machette’s vision of Aimée’s world is of one in which only social graces hold people back from killing each other. This allows the action to move quickly, Aimée scarcely arriving in town before finding the affairs and tensions that precede her work, as well as a man who despises the town’s residents as much as she does. The fault here is that Machette’s world, while dark and at times extraordinary, is wholly unbelievable. There is a cartoonish nature to Aimée, the town, the nature of the murders she commits, that is hard to overcome. These things could well make for a novella that is as extraordinary as the oversize world it contains, if only there were a single character in Fatale who reads as more than a broadly-drawn character sketch. Fatale may well be a fine representative of French noir; it’s not, unfortunately, one that makes me want to further explore the genre.