Scott William Foley

As the title would suggest, this is a work of postmodernism at its purest.  However, that’s not necessarily always a good thing.  Dave Eggers presents a book that is a series of contradictions.  As the title sarcastically notifies, it is sometimes heartbreaking, and it is also sometimes the work of genius.  Consequently, the title also reeks of narcissism and “gimmick,” to which it is equally guilty.

To summarize, Eggers details the death of his parents and then his struggle to raise his much younger brother while attempting to start and maintain a magazine and land a role on The Real World.  But the book is so much more than that.  While labeled fiction, he makes no bones about the fact it is almost entirely autobiographical.

When Eggers is being authentic, the book is beautiful.  When he’s writing from the heart, blending his neurosis and experimental metacognition with events in an ingenuous manner, the book really is a joy to read.  There are sincere moments of hilarity, love, sadness, tension, and drama.  Eggers also readily exposes flaws in his character and without pause-flaws we all have but may not reveal so candidly to the world.  Unfortunately, my copy has 437 pages, and I’d say only about 230 of those are written in such sincere fashion.

The rest of the book is pure gimmick, and Eggers makes a point to admit this in a long-winded and agitating series of prefaces.  These sections of the book really irritated me due to their completely self-absorbed shtick and superfluous nature.  Eggers is pushing the envelope, and I can appreciate that, but in the instances it doesn’t work, it DOESN’T work.  We’re all familiar with the saying, “You’re trying too hard.”  Eggers falls victim to this temptation for much of the book.

There’s nothing wrong with presenting yourself egocentrically, for the majority of us are self-centered.  I admire Eggers for frankly and humorously divulging his many personality quirks.  I respect the blunt style chronicling his family’s struggles.  And when it worked, I learned a great deal about metacognition and how to execute it well.  Unfortunately, I also discovered the failings of “trying too hard” and giving into the lures of gimmick.

I absolutely admire Paul Auster because whenever I pick up one of his books, I totally have no idea what to expect.  You’ve surely noticed how some authors basically tell the same story over and over again?  Not Auster.  I’ve read quite a few of his works by now, and while he has similar themes delving into aspects of humanity, he delivers each and every one of said themes in a totally original and captivating manner.

Timbuktu is unlike anything I thought Auster capable of writing.  Our narrator and protagonist is Mr. Bones, a through-and-through mutt owned by a delusional and kind-hearted vagabond named Willy.  We see life through Mr. Bones’ eyes, and Auster does a magnificent job of breaking we humans down to our most essential characteristics.  Mr. Bones sees life as it is, and sees us for who we are.

The story took a while to heat up because Willy proclaimed early on that death awaited him.  The only problem was, while death certainly awaited him, I got irritated waiting for Willy to finally die so that Mr. Bones’ next step in life could begin.  Once Willy headed for Timbuktu and Mr. Bones blazed a new trail in the world, I could hardly put the book down.

Again, I can hardly believe the man who wrote The New York Trilogy, an utterly experimental and complex work, also wrote Timbuktu, a short novel told to us from the experiences of a dog.

Auster is a true artist, a man willing to write whatever he wants despite externally imposed conventions, and I dare you to resist the warmth and charm of this story and Mr. Bones.  Furthermore, I challenge you to keep a dry eye on the last page.

I’ve heard much about The Sandman series for many years, and so last summer I finally decided to experience it for myself.  The first volume was adequate, but it didn’t “wow” me as much as I expected.  Probably because, by this point in time, Gaiman’s concepts had been copied and recopied so many times by so many other writers that the original held little distinction.

I took solace in the fact that Volume III of the series was to be the one that set The Sandman beyond anything else in the comic book medium that came before or after.  Sadly—for me—it didn’t electrify.  Good?  Certainly.  Great?  No.

So, believing the opinions of several friends can’t be wrong, I still pressed on.  Volume IV, Season of Mists, proved to be the one.  This is the volume that completely and utterly “wowed” me.  From the beginning to the end, this was a tightly woven story packing emotional, philosophical, intellectual, and conceptual punches that did not fail to capture both my imagination and respect.  The character of Morpheus is visually interesting, but it was not until this volume that he began to fascinate me as a well-rounded character.

The premise is simple in Season of Mists.  Morpheus realizes he long ago made a mistake for which he must atone.  It is how he deals with coming to this decision and the ramifications of going about executing it that astonished me.  Gaiman’s imagination is limitless in Season of Mists, pulling from established myths and legends as well as creating his own.

The art, like all of the volumes, is rather hit or miss.  Luckily, the image of Morpheus is so striking and the stories so good that the art is easy to overlook.

Finally, I wouldn’t consider myself a fan of Harlan Ellison by any stretch of the imagination, but his introduction to this volume is delightful and is alone worth the price of the entire book.

I heard many positive statements about the work of Cormac McCarthy, and so a few weeks ago, I gave him a try with No Country for Old Men.  I was not disappointed. 

Because of such a sublime experience, I couldn’t wait to read another of his works, this time opting for The Road.  I must admit from my previous exposure to McCarthy, I had a very difficult time finding what possible allure The Road held for Oprah Winfrey, who named it her book of the month (or whatever she may call it) a while back. 

Nothing against Oprah, but I made sure to buy a used copy, one produced at a time when they weren’t yet stamping her approval upon the cover.

The Road had much in common with No Country for Old Men, but it also had many dissimilarities.  The commonalities included the lack of quotation marks, the terse sentences and paragraphs, and a minimalist approach to description.

In contrast, however, The Road did not grab my interest by the throat and demand I give it my full attention as did No Country for Old Men.  In fact, I found myself rather uninterested in The Road and struggled for the motivation to finish it.

I must wonder, however, if the slow, mind-numbing style employed by McCarthy meant to reflect the despair and melancholy his characters fought to overcome with every breath they took.

For The Road is the story of a post-apocalyptic world, one covered in ash where little to no life has survived.  A man and a boy travel a road, desperately heading to the ocean, though they know not what they’ll find upon arriving.  The boy has known no other world, but the man can remember a time without hunger, without death surrounding them like a second skin, and he wants more than anything to keep the boy alive.  The hope of finding the boy a better life is the only reason the man has for subsisting.

Nevertheless, because this is McCarthy, a happy conclusion is not guaranteed.

The composition of The Road mirrored the plight of its characters, and while this is an interesting stylistic choice, it ultimately left me dispassionate.  Though I am glad Oprah enjoyed it.

However, The Road did NOT turn me off McCarthy, who I still believe is an extraordinary writer, and I look forward to reading more of his work.