Madness In Fiction

I'm 'reading' two books right now, though one of the two I've about given up on, and hence the choice to put quotes around 'reading.' I thought I'd capture some thoughts on them here, since that's the sort of thing this blog's supposed to be for.

The book that I've been slogging through, off and on, for several months and am about to call it quits on, is One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. This is considered a masterpiece by those in the know, even winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1972, as well as receiving one of the most impressive pieces of hyperbole I've ever encountered when the New York Times called it "the first piece of literature since The Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race." I really haven't been enjoying One Hundred Years of Solitude, so I guess that's consistent, as I find the Bible unreadable, as well, and would hate to see the billions of non-believers in the world subjected to its meaningless (to them) words. Similarly, this Marquez book just isn't working for me.

The two main complaints I have with One Hundred Years of Solitude are that the characters all seem to have very similar names, and they're all crazy! The former issue I could deal with, if I were interested enough to make a few notes as I read through it, or even to flip back and forth constantly to sort through the specifics of just who Jose Arcadio Buendia, Jose Arcadio, Aureliano Buendia, Arcadio and Aureliano Jose - just to name a few! - all are in relation to each other. Unfortunately, the tales surrounding each of these men, representing a few generations of one or more families (the tree gets kind of complicated) were such a hodgepodge of realism and fantasy that I was never drawn into the story. Most events just seemed to happen without rhyme or reason. I've read that the events of the book are allegorical for the history of Columbia, which is certainly interesting on its own, but does nothing for me as I read about yet another person behaving inexplicably like a lunatic.

Which is the bigger problem I had with the third of the book that I made my way through: everyone seems to go insane at some point! From the women who fall madly in love with some man upon seeing him for the first time, only to decide, once the man begins showing interest, that their love can never happen, to the father who becomes so immersed in exploring whatever trinket a group of gypsies show him that he traumatizes his family, I just couldn't find any solid ground upon which to stand as I read the book! To say that virtually every character in this book acts in ways unlike any non-institutionalized human I've ever encountered would be an understatement. At first it seemed colourful: a young girl eats dirt before being taken in by kindly family, but then relapses as a woman to her old ways. I guess that almost makes some sense. But around about the point where the patriarch of the family has been tied to a tree for several years because he's gone crazy and become given to fits of rage, I just lost my ability to care. Madness without any reason just sort of leaves me cold. And this book, or at least the portion I got through, is sick with it!

I'll readily admit that I'm probably missing something that many others, including Tammy - who considers this one of her favourite books - have been able to thrill to. But on the other hand, liking something because others like it has never worked for me, so I don't lose any sleep over being a dissenting voice. In matters of tastes, there is no right or wrong; there's only what you like and don't like. And as much as I wanted to, I just couldn't like this book. (But more power to those who do!)

While I was ill this past week, I had a couple very bad nights where I was in too much discomfort to sleep. On the first such night, desperate for something to take my mind off my situation, I grabbed the next book off the pile beside the bed, which happened to be The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster. I'd gotten this book as a Christmas present from Vicki, who likes to seek out books I've never heard of based on recommendations that are in turn based on books I've liked! OK, that's not very clear. What I mean is that Vicki will talk to someone in the book business and say, "My husband really likes John Irving" or "He loved Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon." From this tactic have arrived books such as Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks and Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed. Because of successes like that, I've learned to be slightly less skeptical than I used to be. I crack open each new book with a blank slate and dive in, rather than trying to anticipate whether the write-up on the back of the book really sounds like my cup of tea.

And thus I started The New York Trilogy in the wee hours of Tuesday night (really, Wednesday morning), with either the best or the worst conditions for appreciating fiction: I needed something to draw me in and transport me away from my body! Fortunately for me, Mr Auster was up to the task!

The trilogy in question is made up of three short novels that he wrote over several years: City of Glass, Ghosts and The Locked Room. Each is an example of the mystery genre, I suppose, although they all play fast and loose with our preconceived notions of that type of story. Like One Hundred Years of Solitude, there's no shortage of madness to be found within its pages, but with a difference: the genesis and development of the insanity is a central part of the tale, rather than simply being something that the reader has to suspend belief about. And the madness tends toward obsession, rather than just crazy-for-crazy's-sake, which also makes for a more engaging read, I think.

In City of Glass, a writer of Private Eye fiction, named Quinn, has settled into a routine of disassociation following the deaths, several years earlier, of his wife and small son. He writes under a pseudonym, and deals with his editor and publisher at arm's length, never having even met either. All transactions goes through the mail, and Quinn is able to live off his writing quite comfortably, despite only working at it for a few months each year. His life consists of writing and wandering the streets of New York, never really making contact with anyone beyond a nod or a smile. But then he receives a phone call in the middle of the night, asking to speak to a man who isn't Quinn. The voice on the other end of the phone is barely intelligible, but is clearly distressed. His life is in danger, you see, and only this other person, who the caller says is one of the city's best private investigators, can save him. After blowing off the caller and hanging up, Quinn can't help but think of the irony that someone would mistake him, a writer of P.I. fiction, for the real deal!

His phone rings again the next night, but he waffles on answering it just long enough to allow the caller to give up. By the third night, he's waiting for the phone to sound and has the whole exchange planned in his mind. If he writes about gumshoes, shouldn't he able to play one on the phone? But no call arrives that night. Nor the next night. On the fifth night, though, he pounces when the device rings, and launches into his well-rehearsed impersonation of the private detective. And with that, his carefully-insulated life begins to unravel. There are so many cool moments in this story that I'll probably end up re-reading it sometime soon. If I have any complaint, it's that the ending didn't pay off as well as I'd hoped, but the ride there was fantastic.

Ghosts is the shortest of the three stories, and probably the weakest. The basic premise is that a private investigator is hired to watch a man, but not told why. He's being paid well, so he takes the contract and starts filing weekly reports on what he observes. Unfortunately, all the other man seems to do is read and write, making for the most boring stake-out the private dick has ever taken on. But he also starts to identify with the object of his attention, while not coincidentally beginning to lose control over his own life. His form of insanity develops slowly, and leaves the reader wondering just which bits, of what he claims to be observing, are really happening. It's an interesting little tale that has a nice twist at the end, and also features a running gag in that all of the main characters' names are colours. Mr Blue is watching Mr Black after being contracted by Mr White, and girlfriend Violet loses interest in their relationship. There's also a Goldman, and a Ruby, and several others I've forgotten. Fun stuff.

The final story, The Locked Room, is the one that I'm reading now (well, not right now obviously!) It features a column writer who gets a letter from a woman he doesn't know. The letter writer informs him that she married his childhood best friend, Fanshawe, whom he'd lost touch with over the years. She tells him that her husband has gone missing, and is presumed dead, and that he left behind instructions to contact his former best friend if anything should happen to him. It turns out that the missing man had a closet full of writings that he'd done over the past ten years, none of which his wife could ever convince him to submit for publication. But now Fanshawe's been missing for six months, and his instructions to his wife were to contact his childhood friend, who he knew was now being published, and ask him to read the material. The goal: either try to get it into print, or burn it all, as he saw fit. Yet another intriguing setup, and who wouldn't want to keep reading to see where it goes? Not me, that's for sure! I'm about halfway through it, so I don't know how it ends up yet. I've already seen Fanshawe's first novel be published to rave reveiws, the writer fall in love with the woman, the two of them marry, and the writer receive an untracible letter from Fanshawe, encouraging him to carry on with both the publication efforts and his wooing of Fanshawe's wife! The writer's just beginning to lose it, as he's torn about whether to show the letter to his new wife or not, since he knows he risks losing her if he does. He's also starting to toy with the idea of providing some of his own work under the Fanshawe name, since who would be able to prove otherwise?

Despite the three stories having been published separately previously, they read really well as a collection. Certain small things unify them, such as: in passing, a P.I. character named "Quinn" is referenced in The Locked Room, as a nod to City of Glass. Also, baseball plays a small part in each story, and Don Quixote is referenced in all three. Little bits like that reward the reader for paying attention, and are easier to pick up on when they're likely to be read together.

If either of the books here sounded like something you'd like to read, I encourage you to do so! (After all, reading is fundamental!) Tammy would likely make One Hundred Years of Solitude available to anyone she knows, and I'll similarly lend out The New York Trilogy once I finish it!