Gold Beats the Devil

I'm reviewing my pleasure-reading for the last few months (all documented extensively here on Thinkulous; just use the search field above if you want to read more on any of these books) and there is an undeniable theme emerging:

1) Moby-Dick, by Herman Melville: A rollicking story of a man's life-defining adventure, written in highly stylish prose, with historical and philosophical underpinnings.

2) Yiddish Policemen's Union, by Michael Chabon: A rollicking story of a man's life-defining adventure, written in highly stylish prose, with historical and philosophical underpinnings.

3) The Egyptologist, by Arthur Phillips: A rollicking story of two men's life-defining adventures, written in highly stylish prose, with historical and philosophical underpinnings.

Ah, but then there's my latest read, picked up this week while on a brief vacation on Cape Cod: Carter Beats the Devil, by Glen David Gold. It's an entirely different deal -- a truly rollicking... story... of a man.... hmm.

Charles Carter is an Edwardian-era prestidigitator, a card-and-coin man rising through the ranks of the vaudeville and chautauqua circuits. He spends his days in malodorous, musty train cars, dreaming of being a big-time illusionist like Mysterioso, who has an opulent train of his own and a secure spot at the top of the bill every night. Even before this endearing biographical adventure gets underway, Gold foreshadows the greatness in the offing, by way of an "Overture" in which Carter performs in a fantastically ornate theater in San Francisco, and receives President Warren G. Harding as a distinguished guest. I won't spoil anything here.

So far, it's a lovely vacation read. I commend Gold for not attempting overly flashy language; as I've pointed out here in posts on The Egyptologist, that seems to be the most common trap of the middlebrow novelist (a title I apply endearingly, by the way). Gold's prose is quite readable, and, at times, even flows admirably in its unpretentious portrayal of a very pretentious time and profession.

I'm only a fifth of the way in. So far, there's been a wonderfully brisk and engaging exposition, followed by some regrettable pages in which the language and plotting loses some of that crystal clarity. Am I one of the few people who have little patience for sweeping novels that bog down in day-to-day soap operas? There are so many of them. Even my main man Chabon is guilty at times (though rarely).

But I suspect I'm in for the long haul with Gold; I'm having fun. I'll keep you posted.

The Pulitzer Syndrome

In a recent post, I made the case for the length of Moby Dick. It’s the first time I’ve done so, because I usually complain when a book runs over 300 pages. I am not endorsing length as a concept. At best, it usually bogs down and detracts from the book. At worst, it comes off self-indulgent or show-offy.

I’m a huge fan of Michael Chabon, and I tell everyone so. I love his new book, Yiddish Policemen’s Union, and still rave to people about it weeks after finishing it. But it is a bit tinged by this dynamic.

I have taken to calling this the Pulitzer Syndrome, and I’m curious to know if others have noticed it. It goes like this:

Author writes ambitious book. Author wins Pulitzer (or other popular acclaim). Author takes this as a mandate, and (perhaps semi-consciously) tries to make each successive book more ambitious. Editor quails at the idea of suggesting to a Pulitzer-winning author that perhaps 450 or 500 pages is more than is necessary to tell a story. Book is published. Reviewers swoon, partly because author is truly talented, partly based on previous success. Despite length, book does well enough. Add dollars; repeat.

I don’t know if this is the way it works, but the evidence is sure there. I’ve seen it happen with Barbara Kingsolver, who went from her delightful light trilogy, which ended with Pigs in Heaven, to gratingly pretentious essays and the ponderous Poisonwood Bible.

I’ve even seen it happen with George Lucas. Star Wars I: The Phantom Menace (the fourth movie in the series, the one that began the new trilogy) was bloated, wooden and plotless. Can you imagine one of Lucas’ assistants waiting for a private moment with the emperor, so s/he could say, “Uh, George, about that script…” Yeah. Right.

But it’s a pity they don’t.

Moby-Dick and Yiddish Policemen's Union

Reading Moby-Dick (see many previous posts on Thinkulous by using the search field, above) has reminded me, in its marked flavor of uniqueness of thought and -- principally -- its ambition, of the work of one of my other favorite authors, also impressive for the volume of his output: Michael Chabon.

Chabon approaches most projects with Melville’s wild, voracious appetite gleaming in his eyes. He spends endless months at libraries, on-line and on the phone interviewing experts. I get the feeling that if he can’t learn, by heart and to the last detail, three or four complete and complex worlds before starting a book, it just doesn’t seem worth it to him to begin. And, like Melville, he writes long -- sometimes, a bit too long, but I forgive him because of the sheer joy of reading his language and plots.

In his latest, The Yiddish Policemen’s Union , he weaves in relatively seamlessly (and in that sense, he is very different from Melville) entire continents of secular Jewish history, sociology, linguistics and psychology; large swatches of Judaism both obscure and well-known; technical, historical and cultural perspectives on the game of chess; multiple themes of immigrant life and persecution; half the extant language of Yiddish, plus a bunch of Yiddish words he repurposed for the story… oh, yes, and a complete and self-contained film noir culture and plot. All while conjuring, to the minutest door-hinge, an alternate-Israel, surreally established in Alaska in the late 1940s and grown to fruition, and then spoliage, since then.

Try that, Melville!