The Expedition Bogs Down

I've been enjoying The Egyptologist (see previous post) by Arthur Phillips, but I have to admit the second half hasn't been as fun as the first. He got off to a rip-roaring start, then settled in to pleasant clip. But by the mid-point, it began to feel like the Pulitzer Syndrome (see my explanatory post here) was setting in, even though his first effort didn't win that prize. It was, however, a huge success, and perhaps no one doing the preliminary reading for the second book had the guts to say, "Uh, listen Art, this is great stuff -- GREAT! But, uh... the second half; it gets a little, uh, slow."

Don't get me wrong, it's still quite enjoyable, and I might still recommend the book (I have to finish it to be sure). The characters are gorgeously drawn, and their language (on display so resplendently in their correspondence, which makes up the whole of the book) is delicious. But I feel like I'm stuck in the exposition section of the book and it's regenerating itself. Perhaps it's the device of using only letters as text that bound him to unfold the plot so slowly; each of the letter-writers doesn't know what the other one knows, and they're on opposite sides of the earth, in the 1920s, before international telephone service, much less email. It's amusing to watch letters cross in the mail, cables (enigmatically brief because of their cost) misinterpreted... but it can only provide the backbone of a story for so long.

Some of the characters might be utter liars, not even who they pretend to be. Some might simply be fooling themselves and wreaking havoc because of it. I'm tired, though, of not knowing and being pulled back and forth. It's unfair after 200 pages to not have revealed even a little of what's what. It's really quite fun for a good while, but then suddenly I find myself skimming whole paragraphs, even pages.

In the final third of the book,Trillipush interprets a very long set of hieroglyphs (not hieroglyphics, as he points out), and the resulting text goes on for pages and pages, doing nothing to move the plot forward. Oh, I get the idea: Phillips is doing a little reverse psychoanalysis, in which Trillipush uses the mytho-historical figure of the Egpytian king to vent all his inner frustrations and secrets. Clever and fun for a few paragraphs, but nothing new gets revealed. A little of this goes a very long way.

What keeps me reading is, of course, the desire to see the mystery solved. With all the excess, there's still a pull to find out whodunit, or, more aptly, who's fooling who. Also, there's still some good flavor left in Phillips' frothy concoction, even after pouring on too much sugar for too long. But he'd better move it along. His character Trillipush wowed his creditors into investing in his expedition with promises of a huge discovery of gold artifacts and historical insight. Phillips made a similar promise with considerable brio at the beginning of The Egyptologist. By now, both creditors and reader are getting impatient.

Sentiment Versus Art

I do apologize, noble readers, for the lags in air time on Thinkulous lately. I've been swamped in training week and the first week of a new job. It's been very interesting and extremely tiring. Add wedding planning to the mix (and a couple of other logistical flare-ups in our lives), and you have the infrequent posting habits of late.

I did finish Gilead (previous posts here) and was richly rewarded for my efforts. I debated with myself long and hard whether this book was sentimental -- a damning term in my family's cultural lexicon. I've decided it's not. That term, in my mind, refers to a work that evokes emotion in order to make the reader (viewer, listener, etc.) feel s/he has witnessed something powerful. Usually, the emotion is pleasant, but it doesn't have to be. Sentiment, in this sense, carries connotations of crassness, lack of subtlety. Hallmark movies. Etcetera.

Gilead did indeed invoke a lot of emotion at a few key points (though far more often, it provoked deep intellectual musings). But the feelings were complex, and they were a product of a believable character and an authentic story line. Sentiment is manufactured. Genuine emotion is evoked through artistic quality that powerfully reflects some part of my experience of life -- and often offers some new insight into that experience.

Gilead starts out looking like it's headed for sentiment. It ends up firmly in the camp of high quality literature. It does this without giving in to the modern novelist's greatest crutches -- far more prevalent and pernicious these days than sentiment, in my view: Depressive pessimism or excess irony.

It's a warm, affirming novel that faces, struggles with, and ultimately embraces the ugly points of life. Don't miss it.

Michael Chabon and Moby Dick -- Again!

Holy cow!

I've been writing about both Michael Chabon and Moby Dick here -- and even the relationship between the two -- for about two weeks or so, and look what I just found! (Just enter "Chabon," or "Moby Dick," or both, into the search field at the top of this window to see previous posts on the subject.)

With a spontaneous search on Google for another purpose, I happened upon a quote from Chabon:

"Moby Dick - that book is so amazing. I just realized that it starts with two characters meeting in bed; that's how my book begins, too, but I hadn't noticed the parallel before, two characters forced to share a bed, reluctantly."

It's not made clear on the web page with the quote, but I'd guess he's referring to Joe Kavailer and Sam Clay, at the beginning of his book bearing their names.

As my mother and I like to say, "Everything's connected!"

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.