Don't let the target demographic---tweens/middle school readers---fool you: Suzanne Young's new novel, "What Stays Buried", is a heart-pounding, suspeDon't let the target demographic---tweens/middle school readers---fool you: Suzanne Young's new novel, "What Stays Buried", is a heart-pounding, suspenseful supernatural/horror thriller that would make Stephen King proud.
Calista Wynn is a clairvoyant in a family of clairvoyants. Unfortunately, like all the members of her family, she only has use of her powers until the age of thirteen. Calista is twelve, weeks away from turning thirteen.
Seeing dead people is one of her powers. Ghosts come to her when they need help, or if they are lonely and just looking to talk to someone living. Lately, her power has taken on a special importance.
Three boys have mysteriously disappeared from the small town where Calista lives. She has seen the ghosts of two of them. An evil entity known as the Tall Lady seems to be behind the disappearances.
With the help of the ghosts of her grandmother and father, her living Aunt Freya, and her very living (and cute) classmate Wyland, Calista must battle an ancient enemy that has threatened the town for decades.
A lot of good jump-scares, an atmospheric sense of dread, and some tear-jerking moments make this a fun, spooky Halloween read for kids of all ages.
There is a tendency---especially in horror---of characters doing really stupid things. There's always someone dumb enough to open that closet door or There is a tendency---especially in horror---of characters doing really stupid things. There's always someone dumb enough to open that closet door or walking down into that dark cellar or opening the lid of that old dusty trunk. One could say that they are asking for it, but, if we are honest with ourselves, isn't it pretty believable? Humans are naturally curious creatures, sometimes to our detriment. If there is a door to be opened somewhere, isn't our initial impulse to open it and peek inside?
There is another kind of stupidity in horror that happens quite a lot, and it may also seem believable given the fact that humans don't always think through their actions, especially in high-stress situations. I call it "calamity-dumb", and it usually involves a small group of 3-5 people who are suddenly caught up in some kind of tragic situation. Whether it's a group of frat-boys who have accidentally killed a young woman in a gang-rape or a group of high-schoolers who have just committed a hit and run on a desolate country road, they invariably make horrible decisions.
So, instead of doing the right thing---calling the police and telling the truth, for instance---they decide to hide the truth and make a pact to never talk about it. Of course, doing the former would make for very short novels and, frankly, uninteresting ones. At least by doing the wrong thing, the characters ensure that Peter Straub's "Ghost Story" and Lois Duncan's "I Know What You Did Last Summer" would keep the reader riveted throughout.
Ronald Malfi's "Small Town Horror" is classic calamity-dumb horror.
It involves five high school kids who, 20 years ago, did something horrible on July 4th that resulted in someone's death. It was a terrible accident, but, instead of going to the police, they decided to not report it and never talk about it.
Guilt, however, has a powerful pull sometimes. Never mind any actual vengeful spirits that may be choreographing an elaborate scheme to make sure the guilty parties get their just deserts.
Malfi's story is compelling and suspenseful. It's also---as most calamity-dumb stories are---somewhat depressing. The characters in "Small Town Horror" aren't evil people. They aren't even very bad. They just did something really bad many years ago, and they are now paying the price for it. As they knew they would eventually....more
Ghosts aren’t what they used to be. Hell, horror isn’t what it used to be. And that’s a good thing. That means the genre is maturing.
Remember when ghoGhosts aren’t what they used to be. Hell, horror isn’t what it used to be. And that’s a good thing. That means the genre is maturing.
Remember when ghosts were floating bedsheets? They were good for a jump scare around a campfire, that was about it. Sure, they were a subtle acceptance of death, but never anything upon which to dwell. Ghosts were relatively harmless.
In Josh Malerman’s new novel, “Incidents Around the House”, the ghosts are all grown up. And they ain’t harmless at all.
Probably one of the most terrifying horror novels of the year, if not the last five years, “IAtH” is more than just a ghost story. It’s a story about childhood and innocence and the loss of both. It’s about family and dysfunction and bad parenting and good parenting (and how, more often than not, the two are sometimes indistinguishable) and reconciling with one’s past. It’s about karma and reincarnation and sacrifice. It’s about the very fine line between love and hate. It’s about life and death and after-life and how utterly incomprehensible those are to anyone, especially children.
It’s a ghost story in which the ghost isn’t really a ghost.
It’s all of that, and it’s still scary as fuck.
Historically, horror doesn’t get a lot of credit for its literary merits. Thankfully, a renaissance seems to be happening in the genre, where writers like Paul Tremblay, Catriona Ward, Stephen Graham Jones, Sarah Gailey, T. Kingfisher, Grady Hendrix, Josh Malerman, Cassandra Khaw, and many more are reshaping the genre by adding substance and nuance to a genre that, for many, is still looked at as insubstantial and one-dimensional....more
A clever premise that pays homage to George Perez’s DC series The New Teen Titans and Marvel’s “The Uncanny X-Men” from the 1980s while also creating A clever premise that pays homage to George Perez’s DC series The New Teen Titans and Marvel’s “The Uncanny X-Men” from the 1980s while also creating a fun spin-off from the universe of Black Hammer, Jeff Lemire’s graphic novel “The Unbelievable Unteens” tells the story of a comic book superhero team that mysteriously disbanded years ago and has fallen so far into obscurity that even its own members have forgotten about it.
Comic book artist Jane Ito is coming home from a comic convention showcasing her popular series The Unbelievable Unteens when she meets one of the team members. This isn’t some kid in cosplay, either. This is Jack Sabbath, the only team member to have died. Jack’s ghost does a pretty good job of convincing her that the superhero team was not only real, but that she was an original member named Strobe. Now, it’s just a matter of getting the team back together.
It’s never that simple, though.
Teen angst, unrequited love, the trials and tribulations of becoming an adult: Lemire’s teen super-team tackles it all in a fun, short five-issue series....more
I never attended a military academy, and I never wanted to. Indeed, military schools are, in my mind, the punishment desperate parents dole to their uI never attended a military academy, and I never wanted to. Indeed, military schools are, in my mind, the punishment desperate parents dole to their unruly male children. Or they are the punishment given to rich kids when their wealthy parents want absolutely nothing to do with parenting. In either case, it’s punishment.
Pat Conroy has a love-hate relationship with military academies. Well, one military academy in specific.
The Citadel, located in Charleston, South Carolina, is a gorgeous sprawling campus that has, over the years, consistently garnered high academic rankings. It has also provided the military with many young soldiers, and, in fact, during the second world war, it had the distinction of having the highest percentage of its student population go into military service. It officially became racially-integrated in 1966, and it ended its male-only admissions policy in 1996.
Conroy attended the Citadel from 1963 to 1967, graduating from the school. All graduates are given a ring that is as highly cherished as a wedding band. Indeed, the famous first sentence of Conroy’s now-classic 1980 novel “The Lords of Discipline” is “I wear the ring.”
There is an almost contradictory sense of loyalty and loathing that Conroy writes about regarding his feelings toward the Citadel. He has nothing but compassion and love for his fellow brethren of the Class of ’67, but he also clearly has distinctly negative feelings toward what was called “the plebe system”, the strict and, in many ways, abusive, honor code system lorded over by upperclassmen as a way to, ostensibly, build young boys into men. In reality, it was more of an excuse for upperclassmen to torture and abuse underclassmen.
The novel follows Will McLean, a young man from a lower-class Southern family, through his four years of attending the academy. A poet at heart who wants nothing to do with the military, McLean learns to navigate his way through a system that he finds abhorrent. Along the way, he learns a lot about himself, what it means to be honorable, and what it truly means to be a man.
There is much to love about this novel. Besides Conroy’s gorgeous prose stylings, the novel touches on a plethora of themes—-friendship, loyalty, class distinctions, racism, male-female relationships. There is also a mystery, of sorts, at the heart of the story, as McLean and his roommates stumble upon a secret society within the Citadel; a discovery that will have major repercussions on McLean’s tenure at the school, as well as his life and the lives of his friends and loved ones.
As always, Conroy transports the reader to another world through his gorgeous, almost ethereal, writing. In this case, it is Charleston, South Carolina of the late-1960s, a somewhat alien world to 21st-century readers but one that—-if looked at closely—-isn’t all that different from our own....more
When the world sets the standards for beauty, those who don’t meet the standards are automatically ugly. To be black in America, in the 1950s, was to When the world sets the standards for beauty, those who don’t meet the standards are automatically ugly. To be black in America, in the 1950s, was to be automatically ugly, because the standard for beauty was white.
Toni Morrison’s first novel “The Bluest Eye”, published in 1970, was a beautifully heart-breaking and infuriating novel about self-hatred among black people. It is not difficult to see how the self-loathing rampant in the black culture aided and abetted the self-destructive tendencies of young black people. By the 1960s, when the “Black is Beautiful” movement started, much of the damage had already been done.
Morrison’s novel is a commentary on the soul-killing standards of (white) beauty that bombarded young black girls growing up in a pre-“Black is Beautiful” America. The novel follows a young black girl named Pecola Breedlove, who wants nothing more in life than to wake up one day and have blue eyes—-bluer than blue—-just like the ones she imagines Shirley Temple to have.
To her family and everyone around her, Pecola is ugly. She comes from ugly parents, and they live in an ugly storefront apartment in Lorain, Ohio. (Morrison herself grew up in Lorain, so it’s not a stretch to imagine that there is some semi-autobiographical truth in this novel.)
The tragedy that befalls Pecola is difficult to digest, and sensitive readers should be aware that the novel includes graphic depictions of child molestation, rape, and pedophelia. There is, sadly, nothing gratuitous about any of these scenes. They are merely the inevitable results of a perverted world-view founded on racist notions of beauty.
It is a great irony that a novel about the ugliness of Racism should also be so beautifully-written.
I read this as an audiobook on CD, read by the author....more
James Baldwin is a national treasure. I have only read a handful of his books, but every one I have read has been a journey of heart-felt emotion and James Baldwin is a national treasure. I have only read a handful of his books, but every one I have read has been a journey of heart-felt emotion and a life-changing experience.
Baldwin, a civil rights activist, wrote primarily about the Black Experience, but in immersing one’s self in one of his books, one quickly realizes that the intersectionalities of a diversity of ethnicities, cultures, and experiences (Baldwin was also gay) made it clear that he was actually writing about the Human Experience.
“If Beale Street Could Talk”, written in 1974, is one of the most beautiful books I have ever read, and I’m berating myself for not discovering it until now, at age 51. I feel like I’ve wasted most of my life by not having Baldwin, and this book, in my life. At the same time, I feel better for having finally discovered it. This is the “life-changing” aspect of the book.
At the heart of the story is a young black couple, Fonny and Tish. Fonny is in jail, awaiting trial for a crime he didn’t commit. Tish, still in her teens, is pregnant with Fonny’s baby. They had planned on getting married right before the alleged crime occurred. Now, Tish has to be strong, and she has never felt strong. Petite and timid, Tish has to find her voice, not just for herself but for the man she loves and for her unborn child. Thankfully, she has a family to support her. But families are fragile things.
To say that this book is a tearjerker is a given. It is more than that, though. There is not a single fake or manipulative emotion in this novel. It is as if Baldwin opened up a vein and bled his sorrow and grief and anger and frustration out upon the page. This is the “heart-felt” aspect of the book.
I daresay that this is, quite simply, one of the best novels I have ever read....more
It would probably be fair to say that any follow-up to a phenomenal horror trilogy like The Indian Lake Trilogy would naturally be somewhat disappointIt would probably be fair to say that any follow-up to a phenomenal horror trilogy like The Indian Lake Trilogy would naturally be somewhat disappointing. It may be fair to say, but it would also be inaccurate.
Stephen Graham Jones’s latest “deconstructed slasher/teen horror opera” is as intense, horrific, funny, emotionally draining, and poignant as his last three novels, and then some.
“I Was a Teenage Slasher” is the story of Tolly Driver, a skinny, awkward teenager with a peanut allergy and one friend—-the town’s only Indian, a girl named Amber. Tolly is also a slasher.
He doesn’t want to be. And, frankly, he doesn’t even know all the “rules” of being a real-life slasher, which is where Amber comes in handy. She loves slasher films. She knows all about the slasher’s motivations (almost always revenge), the fact that a slasher needs a “brand” (in Tolly’s case, he kills with a never-ending supply of leather belts), and who the final girl is. This may be a problem, because there are multiple candidates in town.
The novel is set over a few days in the summer of 1989 in a small Texas town of Lamesa, where Tolly’s wave of mutilation starts with a very weird pool party.
Jones has done something utterly crazy and unheard of: he’s written a slasher novel from the viewpoint of the slasher, and—-on top of that—-made him absolutely lovable.
Sure, he kills a bunch of teenagers, but they all (kind of) deserve it. Or do they? Therein lies the crux of Tolly’s moral dilemma. He’s compelled to kill these kids for (in a cosmic sense anyway) valid reasons, but, deep down, he knows that they are just kids like him: dumb and prone to making bad decisions that they will regret later in life.
This novel reminds me a lot of a 1988 horror/comedy called “Heathers”, starring Winona Ryder and Christian Slater. Jones doesn’t mention it as an inspiration, but I’m fairly certain that he had to have seen it. Regardless, both have a whimsical, tongue-in-cheek approach to teen murders that could only have been set in the pre-Columbine pre-“Woke” 1980s. Jones is certainly tapping into that vibe, while simultaneously properly excoriating it....more
I think there is something wrong with Paul Tremblay. Mentally, psychologically, perhaps even spiritually. There is some evidence, based on his writingI think there is something wrong with Paul Tremblay. Mentally, psychologically, perhaps even spiritually. There is some evidence, based on his writing, that Tremblay may not be technically human. There is something alien or demonic lurking beneath and between the words he puts on the page.
That said, Tremblay is one of the coolest fucking horror writers writing in the field currently. Nobody else is doing anything like what he is doing. And I say that with a love and respect for a lot of great contemporary horror writers: Stephen Graham Jones, T. Kingfisher, Grady Hendrix, Cassandra Khaw, Joe Hill, Sarah Gailey. Just to name a few.
Tremblay’s latest novel, “Horror Movie” is, like most of his books and short stories, a veritable mind-fuck. It works on so many levels, and can be enjoyed on so many levels, but it digs deep under the skin and gestates for a long time, often giving birth to really uncomfortable and horrible little thoughts that eat tunnels of madness in your brain.
He’s also fun. Brain-devouringly fun.
There is no way that I can describe or summarize this novel without giving spoilers, so I won’t even try.
Instead, I’ll just say that it is the following: a thoughtful examination of the horror genre, a deconstruction of teen slasher films, an homage/critique of horror film fan(atic)s, a moving account of teen angst and suicidal ideation, a castigation of youth, extremely gory and fucked up.
Tremblay, you are one brilliant, insane son of a bitch....more
It warms my heart to see my 9-year-old daughter have certain books that she loves and carries around with her always. I used to do that with certain bIt warms my heart to see my 9-year-old daughter have certain books that she loves and carries around with her always. I used to do that with certain books—-“Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing” by Judy Blume and “The Mouse and the Motorcycle” by Beverly Cleary were probably my top two.
Her favorite author is Raina Telgemeier, who—if you don’t know already—-is the queen of middle school age graphic novels. Seriously, she’s ridiculously popular among the age groups of six to thirteen, and several of her books have won the prestigious Will Eisner Award in that age group. (The Eisner Award is basically the Oscar for the comic book/graphic novel industry.)
“Guts” is about a young girl named Raina who is afflicted with stomach pains and a constant fear of throwing up. (It’s a real phobia, by the way, called emetophobia.) Raina reluctantly goes to talk therapy after numerous doctors run tests and find that there is nothing physically wrong with her. The therapist helps her to realize that her problems with her stomach are caused by severe stress brought on by fears of doing well in school, puberty, and trying new foods. Every new stress, like her best friend moving away, seems to add to her problem. The therapist offers some useful methods, like mindfulness and relaxation techniques, to help her deal with them.
Apparently each of Raina’s books are semi-autobiographical, recounting incidents or issues that she dealt with in her own childhood. They are very funny but also deftly handle touchy subjects that one may not find in typical graphic novels for kids. “Guts” is a great book for kids who are dealing with an unusual amount of stress and fear or not knowing how to deal with it in a healthy way.
It’s kind of sad that kids today are dealing with an unusual amount of stress, but it’s honestly not surprising, what with lockdown drills and more homework and social media and what’s going on in the world. Books like “Guts” offer over-worried kids a kind of literary hug and a message of “It’s going to be okay.”...more
Celebrity memoirs are iffy. With some exceptions, many of them tend to be self-serving or narcissistic: Hey! Look at me! I’m rich and beautiful and faCelebrity memoirs are iffy. With some exceptions, many of them tend to be self-serving or narcissistic: Hey! Look at me! I’m rich and beautiful and famous, but I can totally relate to normal non-famous people. I shopped at Wal-Mart once and I make an effort to eat at a fast food restaurant once a year to, you know, see how the other half live. I also give 4 percent of my income to charities, like free mental health care for pets or free pedicures for homeless people. They mean well, I suppose.
Once in a while, though, a celebrity memoir slips by that is actually thoughtful, relatable, and about something, not just the arrogant ramblings of someone who is trying to sell a book.
Jennette McCurdy’s memoir “I’m Glad My Mom Died” sounds like it could be callous and mean-spirited, but it’s far from it. It’s as moving and humane as the title is heartless and awful. And let’s be honest: the title is awful. It’s also ironic and pretty damn funny, which is probably why it works.
I never watched the long-running Nickelodeon show “iCarly” that McCurdy co-starred in and made her a famous sitcom child actor. I have never seen an episode of “Sam & Cat”, the spin-off series. I may have seen her in the few “Law & Order” or “CSI” episodes where she played: a) a tween-age victim of rape, b) a tween-age witness of the murder of her parent, or c) a tween-age psycho-killer, but if I have, I don’t remember them.
It doesn’t matter. You don’t need to know her acting work to appreciate the book. Partly because she never really wanted to be an actress. In fact, fame and celebrityhood and the Hollywood lifestyle was something that she never wanted at all, but it’s something she did to please one person in her life: her mom.
Debra McCurdy had issues. That’s putting it nicely. She was abusive, mentally and physically. She was narcissistic and cruel to everyone around her, but she managed to get away with it because she made everyone feel like she was working so hard for them. She forced Jennette into a career that the 8-year-old didn’t want, but Jennette went along with it because it made her mom happy. She took acting classes and worked long, grueling hours because it made her mom happy. She became anorexic and, later, bulimic because it made her mom happy. Notice a trend?
Debra died in 2013, after a long bout with cancer. Jennette was devastated. She loved her mom, but with her death came a sense of freedom—-a terrifying, untethered-from-reality, disastrous freedom. Jennette turned to alcoholism and doubled down on her bulimia. She was beyond depressed.
The fact that she found hope and began the slow process of healing is part of what makes this a great book. The other part is that she was able to find the humor in all of it. And it must be said: this is a funny memoir. Not in a goofy, stand-up comedian kind of way. She’s not telling jokes. Nor is she making light of her situation. She’s merely looking back at a pretty fucked-up childhood and seeing the absurdity and the inherent comedy within tragedy.
“I’m Glad My Mom Died” is, hands-down, one of the best memoirs I have read in a long time.
This was an audiobook, read wonderfully by the author....more
Judy Blume was always one of my favorite authors as a kid. “Tales of Fourth-Grade Nothing” and “Superfudge” were beloved favorites. I re-read them dozJudy Blume was always one of my favorite authors as a kid. “Tales of Fourth-Grade Nothing” and “Superfudge” were beloved favorites. I re-read them dozens of times. They were the books I had to take with me on family vacations.
I still have my original Dell Yearling copies, dog-eared and flimsy with rips and tears from overuse and neglect. (This was before I learned to value the condition of books.) I love them, and I have bequeathed them to my daughter.
There were, however, several Blume titles that I have never read, for reasons that are shameful. I didn’t read them because they were “girl” books, about “girl” stuff, and I (being a tween-age sexist pig) wouldn’t be caught dead reading a “girl” book.
“Are You There. God? It’s Me, Margaret.” was one of those books.
To be fair, I probably wouldn’t have liked this book had I read it in third or fourth grade, mainly because I couldn’t relate. I didn’t have to worry about menstruation and buying maxi-pads and praying for big boobs. I also didn’t have a Jewish dad and a Catholic mom, and religion was never a big deal. I went to church, sure, but only because my parents made me go. I certainly didn’t pray to God. What was I going to talk about? How awesome Star Wars was? I’m pretty sure God had more important things to do.
Reading it at age 50, however, and having a nine-year-old daughter certainly changes one’s perspective.
I love this book, and it cements for me the fact that Blume was an incredibly gifted writer, one who could speak the language of tween-age girl so perfectly and yet be immensely profound in dealing with heady subjects like religion and growing up.
This has definitely gone on the ever-expanding list of books that I want my daughter to read someday. I hope she loves it as much as I do....more
If it’s succeeded in doing anything, the genocidal maniac Vladimir Putin’s war against the Ukrainian people has made most Americans feel uncomfortableIf it’s succeeded in doing anything, the genocidal maniac Vladimir Putin’s war against the Ukrainian people has made most Americans feel uncomfortable about the many irrelevant outrages we feel on a daily basis. If we honestly think that the idiocy of the “Don’t Say Gay” Bill or the ridiculous pushback by the Right against “Critical Race Theory (CRT)” constitutes human rights violations, then we really haven’t been paying close enough attention to real human rights violations around the world.
Not that it’s a competition, mind you. I’m not saying that one type of human rights violation is worse than another (although, I suppose, I guess I am). I’m saying that Americans have had it pretty easy—-even after four horrifying years under Herr Trump—-when compared to the daily horror shows in places like Iran, Russia, and North Korea.
We have become somewhat inoculated against authentic outrage—-thanks to political tribalism, a rise in anti-intellectualism, and apathy towards self-reflection due to mind-numbing addiction of social media. We don’t care, and we don’t care because we don’t care. If that makes sense.
Still, it’s hard not to care after reading Yeonmi Park’s startling and heart-rending memoir “In Order to Live”, an account of her life as a child born in North Korea, her defection to China, her experience being a victim of human trafficking, her eventual escape to South Korea, and her work as a human rights activist.
It’s important to note that Park is only 29 years old. She has experienced more heartache, violence, and trauma in her short life than most older Americans have experienced in theirs. Again, not that it’s a competition. I merely mention it it because at 29 years old, I was failing to launch: working shit jobs, spending way too much time on my parent’s couch watching cable, and going to bars and strip clubs every other night. I’m pretty sure mine was not a unique American experience.
At 49, I am far more “woke” than I was at 29, but occasionally I still find myself recognizing a naïveté within myself that I find embarrassing.
Case in point: I made the mistake of skimming through some of the negative reviews of Park’s memoir on Goodreads. (There are, it seems, far more positive reviews than negative ones, thankfully.) What I gleaned was that a small contingent of readers questioned Park’s authenticity due to some irregularities and inconsistencies in her historical timeline. Park herself has addressed some of these issues as the mistaken memories or misremembering of her youth. (She was barely in her tweens during a lot of the events that she describes in her book.) She also didn’t learn to speak English until she was in her late-teens/early-20s.
These (I’ll just say it) “trolls” seem to think that Park’s misremembering adds up to blatant lies. She is, according to them, “making all this up”. Or, worse: she is taking what some claim as her conspiracy in criminal activities (human smuggling, sex trafficking) and transforming it into a story meant to elicit sympathy as a way to gain support for her human rights “propaganda”.
I’ll admit: I don’t understand what the hell is wrong with some people. I could easily chalk it up to North Korean Internet trolls simply trying to denigrate Ms. Park’s reputation in order to protect the reputation of North Korea’s government, a government that regularly falsely imprisons its citizens in horrendous work camps and steals food that is already in short supply. Millions of North Korean citizens are suffering from starvation and malnutrition while Kim Jong-un continues to get fat.
But honestly, I think some people hear a gut-wrenching story like Park’s and just shrug and say, “Whatever. Why should I give two shits about some Asian chick who got raped at age 13? It doesn’t effect me in any way.”
My naïveté rears its head when I think that people like that are a small minority, but I’m afraid that that may not be true.
The truth is, a lot of people who think that they are “woke” don’t know what to do when the rubber actually hits the road. Their outrage sounds really good when it’s eloquently posted on Facebook or Twitter, but when confronted with actual horrifying manifestations of evil such as Vladimir Putin or Kim Jong-Un, they aren’t sure what to say or do. So they choose an easier target.
Park’s memoir is an important document of a life in a country that many Americans don’t know much about, understand, or think is relevant to their own lives. It provides a necessary cognitive dissonance in which real learning and understanding takes place, which is why, I feel, a lot of people won’t read it....more
Before he was the behemoth rock star of the literary world (having published, at the time of his death in 2018, almost 2,000 short stories, novels, scBefore he was the behemoth rock star of the literary world (having published, at the time of his death in 2018, almost 2,000 short stories, novels, screenplays, and TV scripts), before he became the scathing newspaper columnist who managed to piss off people like former Vice President Spiro Agnew on a regular basis, before he became one of the preeminent science fiction writers of the New Wave movement in the 1960s, Harlan Ellison was just a short, angry Jewish kid from the streets of Cleveland, Ohio.
It’s appropriate that the first time I ever met Mr. Ellison was in Cleveland. He had long since moved to and settled in Los Angeles, California. I lived in (and still do) a small Cleveland suburb on the west side called Bay Village. Our claims to fame are the Sam Sheppard murder case and the Amy Mihaljevic kidnapping/murder case---both still unsolved mysteries.
Ellison was speaking at a comic book convention in the Cleveland Convention Center (a building that is no longer extant as it was demolished to make way for a shiny new multi-million dollar convention center that is currently not being used). It was the first time I ever saw him speak.
Ever have one of those epiphany moments in life, the kind where you realize that your life before this moment was just kind of stagnant and the life afterward was going to be pretty great? No? I highly recommend it.
Ellison was an eye-opener for me, a profanity-laced, hilarious, super-intelligent, Jewish, irreverent, life-altering eye-opener. Because let me tell you another thing about Bay Village, OH: it is often called “The Bubble” due to the fact that it is somewhat affluent, extremely white, ultra-conservative, and blissful in its provincial ignorance. I was a product of this cute little burg.
Everything Ellison said was a punch in the gut and a knock on the brainpan. In a good way. When I finally got to say two words to him after standing in line to get a book signed, I was enamored. I can’t for the life of me remember what I said to him, if I said anything at all, I was so verklempt. What I do remember is a guy who could have easily told me to move the fuck along there’s people waiting behind you in a way that cemented for me the fact that he was part of the Elite and I was a peon, but he didn’t do that. He actually initiated a conversation, a friendly one, and I saw the man behind the angry, hyper-critical, cynical facade that he wore in public. I saw the compassionate, sweet man that he probably only showed to good friends, loved ones, and shy sheltered suburban kids who clearly idolized him.
I have been an Ellison devotee ever since, and I was greatly saddened by his death in 2018, but I’ll be honest, I haven’t read (or re-read) much of his stuff in the past many years. Shame on me.
In 2013, Hard Case Crime re-released Ellison’s “Web of the City”, his first published novel from 1958. A funny thing about this book: I have been (unsuccessfully) searching for this book ever since meeting him at that comic book convention. I have scoured nearly every used book store and library book sale that I come across looking for this one book. I came close a couple years ago when I found nearly-mint condition Ace paperback copies of “Love Ain’t Nothing But Sex Misspelled” and “The Deadly Streets”. One just doesn’t come across treasures like this, let alone at a library book sale.
“Web of the City”, however, remained elusive. Then, Hard Case Crime went and re-released it, in a cool trade paperback version with a nifty nostalgic 50s-era painted cover (their trademark).
You ever have an obsession, a quest for something that is always out of one’s reach, and then, one day, you find that magical thing you have spent more than half your life looking for, and it’s a big letdown?
Me neither.
I loved “Web of the City”. Okay, so it’s not great literature. It’s not the Holy Grail. It was a dime-store paperback Ellison wrote (according to his preface) on a cheap typewriter sitting on the shitter during his basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. It’s the story of a greaser named Rusty Santoro who wants badly to leave his gang, the Cougars, and get the hell out of Brooklyn, where everything seems like one big urine-drenched alleyway. Unfortunately, the Cougars are like the Mafia: once you’re in, you’re in for life, and the only way out is at the shiny end of a switchblade.
It may help to know that this book was originally published under the title “Rumble”. It is so stinking cliche-ridden and so damned melodramatic in almost every scene, but it’s also fucking awesome, not the least of which is because it was written by Ellison. Granted, a barely-out-of-his-teen-years Ellison, who was barely surviving Army Ranger basic training at the time (he jokingly calls himself “the most-often-demoted PFC in the history of the United States Army"), but Ellison nonetheless.
I loved this book, because---like its author---behind the violent, pessimistic, angry facade of the novel lies a compassionate heart....more
My wife and I just purchased Disney Plus, ostensibly for the kid, but we’ve been spending more time watching stuff than the six-year-old. We’ve alreadMy wife and I just purchased Disney Plus, ostensibly for the kid, but we’ve been spending more time watching stuff than the six-year-old. We’ve already binge-watched the first seven episodes of “The Mandalorian”, which is as awesome as the hype made it out to be, and so now we’re just skimming and surfing. I recently came across a Marvel TV series that I had never heard of, and my wife and I had just settled down to check out the first episode. Before we knew it, we were hooked, binge-watching six or seven episodes in two days.
The show is called “Runaways”, and it is based on a long-running Marvel comic book series of the same name. I had never heard of it prior to watching the show, but it intrigued me because Brian K. Vaughan had his name attached to it as the writer. Vaughan is the writer behind two excellent comic book series that I love: “Y: The Last Man” and “Saga”. He was also a co-writer for the TV show “Lost”, which I also loved.
I devoured the first volume of “Runaways”, titled “Pride and Joy”, in a sitting. It collected the first six issues of the series, written by Vaughan and drawn by Adrian Alphona. (This may show my age, but I didn’t like that the book was published in “digest” format, which is roughly the size of those manga magazines. The print is too damn small, especially for 47-year-old eyes. Anyway, that’s my grumpy-old-man comment for the day...)
The plot: a disparate group of high school students who all happen to have grown up with each other and consider each other friends inadvertently discover that their parents are a group of super-villains. They witness their parents kill someone in a secret ritual, and they then struggle to figure out how to report it to the authorities while dealing with the fact that it is their parents. They also begin to realize that each of them has their own super-power.
Overall, I was impressed by how the producers of the TV show adapted the comic book so closely, with a few minor changes.
Actually, the changes weren’t so minor, but they were, in my opinion, improvements.
The first major difference is that the TV show eliminates any subtle or not-so-subtle connections with the MCU (Marvel Cinematic Universe). The comic book series clearly grounds the story in a world in which superheroes exist. The Avengers are real, but they live all the way in New York. (The story is set in California.)
By eliminating references to the MCU, the show is grounded in a reality that more resembles our own. It helps to make the revelations by the kids of their parents’ evil actions and their own superpowers that much more intense and believable. The parents in the show don’t wear super-villain costumes, and the kids don’t spend an entire day coming up with superhero names for themselves. The truth is, the TV show could still be a part of the MCU, it just doesn’t seem relevant or necessary to the plot.
Another major difference is that, while the parents are clearly doing horrible things, they don’t come across as absolutely horrible people. They still love their children, and they rationalize their actions by believing that they are making a better life for their kids. On the same token, the kids are truly conflicted about going to the authorities, because they still love their parents, despite the horrible things that they now know about them. This adds an element of realism and believability to the show that seems absent from, or at least watered-down in, the comic books.
I’m still enjoying the comics, because I realize that what works in comic books doesn’t always translate well to TV or movies. I think the producers realized that and made a choice, one that I think works well.
My wife and I are looking forward to watching season 2 someday (as soon as Disney and Hulu can come to some sort of contractual agreement), but in the meantime, there are about ten more volumes of “Runaways” to read. I just wish they had them in large print....more
“South of Broad” is the late Pat Conroy’s seventh novel, published seven years before his death in 2016. Beloved popular novelist, Conroy was best kno“South of Broad” is the late Pat Conroy’s seventh novel, published seven years before his death in 2016. Beloved popular novelist, Conroy was best known for his stories set in and around his hometown of Charleston, South Carolina. While he is considered a “Southern” writer, his many best-selling books have gained a following by fans in all corners of the country and beyond. Conroy may have been a regional author, but his stories touched upon universal themes that struck a chord in everyone.
I read “The Great Santini” years ago. The novel was a fictionalized account of his father, a Marine fighter pilot, who ran his household with an iron fist and, according to Conroy, psychologically abused him and his siblings. I remember cringing at the scenes of verbal and mental abuse at the hands of Bull Meecham, but I also recall the love and respect that Conroy had for his father, despite all the awful things he did to him and his family.
It is perhaps this duality, this human contradiction, that gives Conroy’s stories such an impact and believability. He writes about real people, in real situations, doing things that one could easily categorize as “good” or “evil” until one examines the motivations to reveal the muddled humanity beneath, ultimately acknowledging that the human condition is not black or white but one whole grey area.
Such it is with “South of Broad”, which is, in all fairness, a big hot mess of a novel. Not having read too many other Conroy novels, I’m not sure how this rates among his fans, although I would hazard a guess that it is probably not one of the favorites.
Its lack of focus, shifts in tone, and inconsistent narrative make it an extremely flawed novel, but I was nevertheless drawn in by the beauty of Conroy’s prose. Sections of the book (especially those parts describing Charleston) are incredibly gorgeous and exhibit a writing so powerful as to be almost divine. And while flawed, “South of Broad” is still a joy to read.
The title refers to the section of Charleston that is literally south of Broad Street, at the southern end of the city. It is bordered on two sides by the rivers Cooper and Ashley, and it is a primarily residential area known for its palatial estates and old money.
Figuratively, “South of Broad” refers to the sharp class distinctions of Old Charleston. It is the demarcation of the plebeian lower classes north of Broad Street from the wealthy and elitist members of the high-class society and legacy families that has survived for generations in the city, dating back prior to the Civil War.
In Conroy’s mind, it represents the still-oppressive racist and classist snobbishness that infects the beautiful city that he loves. It is the part of the city that he detests, but he has grown to accept and live with it, as have all Charlestonians. Things may be changing for the better, according to Conroy, but it has been a glacially slow change.
The novel follows a disparate group of friends, centered around the reluctant leader of the group, Leopold Bloom King (named after a character in James Joyce’s novel “Ulysses”), who is as lovable as he is infuriatingly decent and psychologically screwed-up.
His screwed-up psychology may have something to do with the fact that, when he was extremely young, he witnessed his older brother commit suicide by slitting his wrists in the bathtub. Traumatized, Leo spent a few years in a mental hospital, and the stigma of that incident haunts him for the rest of his life.
There is also the fact that he discovers that his mother was a former nun, which explains the rigid Roman Catholicism that he simultaneously finds comfort in but also secretly abhors for its strict legalism and unhealthy judgmentalism. Perhaps because of this, Leo wages a life-long campaign against hypocrisy and hatred in all its forms.
There is a lot to unpack in this novel. At one point, the novel shifts from a pleasant and funny bildungsroman that follows Leo’s spiritual and sexual escapades through high school to a dark mystery-thriller involving the search for an old friend. It is an odd shift in tone. Add to that: an emotionally moving section of the novel set during the early AIDS epidemic in San Francisco; a suspenseful edge-of-the seat section devoted to several characters trying to survive Hurricane Hugo; and a section of the novel in which a psychotic serial killer is hunting down Leo and friends in Charleston.
The novel is a roller coaster of emotions and themes and even genres, and I’m not sure if it works wonderfully all of the time. It may be unfocused, but it is never boring.
The novel’s two saving graces are Conroy’s beautiful writing and the lovableness of his characters. Like Stephen King, Conroy has a penchant for creating well-developed characters in which one can’t help but become emotionally invested. I was rooting for Leo throughout the entire novel, even when his annoyingly strict Catholicism kept him from doing things that would save him pain and anguish. Even the minor characters in the novel are so fleshed-out that there are no minor characters.
“South of Broad” may not be Conroy’s best novel, but if this is Conroy at his less-than-stellar level, it would be a goddamned shame not to read his others....more
“A Clergyman’s Daughter” is George Orwell’s scathing critique of organized religion and a personal lamentation of the death of faith. It is, to a beli“A Clergyman’s Daughter” is George Orwell’s scathing critique of organized religion and a personal lamentation of the death of faith. It is, to a believer, probably not a pleasant read. It is, however, to those of us who don’t believe or have once believed and, for whatever reason, do not anymore, a heartwarming and bittersweet understanding of what disbelief feels like. To fellow atheists/agnostics, Orwell’s novel is a comfort, an acknowledgment, and a reminder that while it may not feel like the faithless have any place in a world of faith, the truth is: we do.
The protagonist of the novel is Dorothy Hare, the titular daughter of the rector in a small English town. Amiable, hard-working, and dedicated to the congregation of the small Anglican church of which her father is pastor, Dorothy leads a life of singular unquestioned faith, a faith that brings her joy.
Her apparent joyful faith is in sharp contrast to her father’s joyless one. The Rector (as he is called throughout the novel) is a thoroughly unlikable person, who hates his job and treats his “faith” as a burden. A misanthrope, the Rector cares little to nothing for his congregation, many of which he treats as lower-class scum. The only members of the congregation to which he is in anyway pleasant are the wealthy members of the community that he sucks up to during times of fundraising. His legalistic Anglicanism is in sharp contrast to his daughter’s kind-hearted openness and non-denominationalism. She is friendly and kind to everyone, even the town Catholics and non-churchgoers---a constant source of annoyance to her father.
Despite her faith, she is still occasionally troubled by thoughts of doubt. She “corrects” this thinking by cutting little marks in her skin: the pain and the blood a self-punishment for her “sin” of questioning dogma. She cuts herself when she angrily questions her father about why he refuses to baptize a dying child because the family lives too far away and the trip would cut into his precious lunch hour. (It is not her place to question: her father is the Rector.) She cuts herself when she has thoughts of disobeying her father’s commands and helping the impoverished families in the neighborhood. (It is a sin to disobey one’s parents and, besides, those families are poor because God clearly deigns them to be poor.) She cuts herself after she stops the the wealthy men of the congregation from occasionally trying to cop a feel or making even more blatant sexual advances. (They are helping to pay for the church upkeep with their generous donations, so they have, probably, earned an occasional tit-grab.)
Things take a surreal turn one day when she awakens to find herself in the busy streets of London without any memory of who she is. All memories of her past life---her name, her place of birth, her upbringing---have simply vanished. She awakens to find herself just one of the poor, untethered masses roaming the city, trying to find a job and a life.
As weeks and months go by, Dorothy’s memories come back in pieces. She begins to realize, though, that she is no longer the girl that she once was. Not after her experience being homeless, working in the inhuman conditions of England’s sweatshops and hopfields, experiencing first-hand the sense of “Christian charity” of the upper classes.
As her memory gradually returns, she begins to see how ridiculous her life was prior to her inexplicable black-out. She begins to see the lies and half-truths that comprised her dutiful entrapment to living a “biblical” life. The Scriptures---once sacred and unmoving in her eyes---are now merely empty words. The God she once worshipped and adored is now nothing but a fairy tale in which she has stopped believing.
Eventually, Dorothy finds herself back home, but she is not the weak-minded silly girl she once was. She has, in a sense, found a strength in her new faithlessness.
This is, perhaps, the hardest thing for people of faith to understand about those of us who have lost faith. For the most part, we don’t celebrate it. It is not necessarily something for which we are proud. We rarely like to advertise it, although most of us are not afraid to admit it if asked.
I can truly only speak for myself when I explain my own feelings of faithlessness. It is not something that makes me feel “better” or “more enlightened” than those who have faith. I do not feel superior. I often lament the loss of my faith, and there is a part of me that still holds out hope that I may, one day, find it again.
At the same time, however, there is a liberating sense that I am not tethered or chained to a set of beliefs that I don’t necessarily believe in. My freethinking isn’t a philosophy that I necessarily think is “right”, but it’s definitely one that feels right to me.
Of course, there are days where I certainly feel that having faith, in anything, would be an analgesic to the misery of life’s meaninglessness.
As Dorothy so aptly puts it: “There was... no possible substitute for faith; no pagan acceptance of life as sufficient to itself, no pantheistic cheer-up stuff, no pseudo-religion of “progress” with visions of glittering Utopias and ant-heaps of steel and concrete. It is all or nothing. Either life on earth is a preparation for something greater and more lasting, or it is meaningless, dark and dreadful. (p. 316)”
Of course, as Dorothy discovers, life has a way of finding ways to temporarily forget about one’s dilemmas with faith and faithlessness. There are always dishes to be cleaned, bills to be paid, and dinners to cook. ...more
Not to sound like a nerdy Star Wars fanboy cliche, but I’ve had a crush on Princess Leia since I was six years old. As I grew up, I realized, of coursNot to sound like a nerdy Star Wars fanboy cliche, but I’ve had a crush on Princess Leia since I was six years old. As I grew up, I realized, of course, that Alderaanian princesses aren’t real, but Carrie Fisher was. She’s also hilarious. And a damn good writer. And I’m kind of ashamed that I’m only discovering this now, at age 48, and several years after her death. Not ironically, she would also get quite a kick out of the absurdity of this paragraph.
The late Ms. Fisher’s last published book, in 2016, “The Princess Diarist” is, apparently, the first time that she ever wrote in-depth about her experience on the now-classic 1977 film that changed her life and the world. That’s not really hyperbole, either. Ask anybody on the planet: if they’ve never seen the film, they more than likely know someone who has and talks incessantly, fetishistically, and annoyingly about it. (like me.)
The beauty of “The Princess Diarist” is that it is a memoir that will appeal to both fans and people who have never seen—-nor have any desire to ever see—-Star Wars. Because this is a book about a woman—-once, a young girl of 19—-who got caught up in something huge and out-of-control and she both loved and hated it. It’s about a woman who experienced a kind of fame and celebrityhood that few only dream of ever attaining, and her assessment of it was a “meh, it was okay.”
There is a lot of humor in this, but don’t be fooled into thinking that this is just a fun, whimsical little memoir. There is, boiling beneath the surface, a sorrow and a sadness in it. There is, beneath the laughter, an anger about the hypocrisy and cruelty of fame.
Much of the sadness stems from the chapter of the book dealing with her affair with Harrison Ford, her famous co-star and on-screen lover. Fisher was 19 when she made Star Wars. Ford was in his mid-30s and married. Fisher may have exuded a persona of sexual experience and sophistication on the set, but it was an act. Ford’s irresistible machismo was like a drug to the girl with puppy-dog eyes.
A large portion of the memoir is the first-time-ever published diary entries of the 19-year-old Fisher, a hodgepodge of bad poetry, rambling stream-of-consciousness essays, and just plain funny (but strangely heart-rending) complaints about her unrequited love for Ford. The guy fucked her head up.
Far from being a caustic tell-all, “The Princess Diarist” is really a story of an older woman with few regrets looking back at a time of her (very young) life and wondering what if?...more
Rape culture: It’s a subject that generates so much irrational animosity that it’s difficult to have a rational dialogue about it, perhaps because it Rape culture: It’s a subject that generates so much irrational animosity that it’s difficult to have a rational dialogue about it, perhaps because it is permanently intertwined with so many other controversial subjects, like abortion, feminism, masculinity, pornography, sex addiction, law enforcement, professional sports, body image, sex education, celebrityhood, economy, religion, fashion, class, gender, race.
I once posted on Facebook that, in my opinion, the ridiculous glamorization of athleticism and deification of sports figures in this country contributed greatly to the culture of rape in this country in that, culturally, we tend to defend or, at the very least, rationalize negative male sexual behavior as “boys being boys” because there still exists a double standard in the way we view sexual behavior: men who are sexually active are “manly” while women who engage in the same levels of sexual activity are “slutty”.
Based on the vitriolic responses I received, one would think that I admitted to being a member of ISIS and/or a pedophile. Apparently expressing a disgust for football (and other sports) or in any way criticizing the behaviors of players is absolutely un-American and simply unacceptable to many people. Never mind that these people completely missed my point. Which is, sadly, a case in point.
We live in a rape culture. What does this mean?
It means we live in a culture that pays lip service to the idea that rape is a horrible crime but the reality is that we generally treat it as nothing more serious than shoplifting.
It means that, in some states, the crime of rape still has a statute of limitations. This means that law enforcement and the justice system can drag their feet long enough in those states until the rape is no longer considered a crime and can’t be tried as one.
It means that because we still have a “blame the victim” approach in our justice system, only about 46% of women who have been raped ever file an official police report. The reality is that only about 25% of those cases filed lead to arrests and only 25% of those arrests ever lead to incarceration or punishment of any kind. (https://www.rainn.org/news/97-every-1...)
It means that many people don’t even know what “rape” is. There are still---in the 21st century---husbands who think that forcing their wife to have sex with them is NOT rape.
It means that, to an extent, girls are still bombarded with messages from all media telling them that being “pretty” and “dumb” are the way to attract boys and that attracting boys is the only real purpose in life for a girl.
It means that, to an extent, boys are still bombarded with messages from all media telling them that being a “man” means sexually objectifying women and that every sexual encounter is another notch on the belt of true manhood.
It means that rape is a very real, serious issue but you wouldn’t know it at all if you ask certain people.
It means that all of us---men and women---are guilty of perpetuating a rape culture, and until we all accept responsibility and start making changes within ourselves, nothing will change.
All of this is probably a too-lengthy and too-preachy introduction to my review of Louise Erdrich’s excellent novel “The Round House”. For that, I’m sorry. It’s a powerful book that succeeds where I fail: it is a book about rape culture that is in no way preachy, judgmental, or full of bellicose feminist jingoism.
It is surprisingly---given the subject matter---humorous at times. It is also quite suspenseful; at times, it reads like a mystery. It is also rather angry without ever being irrational.
The main character is a 13-year-old boy named Joe Coutts. He lives in North Dakota on an Indian reservation. It is 1988. His father is an elder and a tribal Judge. When the story opens, Joe’s mother has just been raped.
The problem, for Joe, is that she isn’t talking. Part of it is shock, but part of it is something else, something that a 13-year-old boy wouldn’t---and shouldn’t---understand.
Young Joe, with the help of his three best friends, decides to play detective. In the course of his search, Joe unfortunately discovers more than he is prepared to deal with. He is forced to confront and examine his own manhood and the choices he makes as a man. In doing so, he goes through a dangerous rite of passage that ultimately has life or death consequences for himself and his loved ones.
“The Round House” is similar in spirit and tone to another classic coming-of-age story, “The Body” by Stephen King (adapted into a phenomenal film called “Stand By Me” directed by Rob Reiner). Both feature young protagonists whose child-like comedic antics belie a very serious and disturbing situation.
Erdrich’s young protagonists aren’t in search of a dead body, though. If they are in search of anything, it is their innocence lost.
While the rape scene is never actually shown in graphic detail, the novel still seems unrelenting and graphic in its depiction of the aftermath of the rape, both physically and mentally for Joe’s mother and the ways it affects Joe, the family, and the community. It is made all the more unbearable by the fact that the rape poses an almost impossible situation for law enforcement, in regards to jurisdiction. (The rape happened on federal reservation land but on sacred tribal grounds.) Add to that the fact that Indian crimes aren’t given much time and effort by federal and state law enforcement agencies, especially rape.
In an Afterword, Erdrich cites some disturbing statistics: “[One] in 3 Native women will be raped in her lifetime (and that figure is certainly higher as Native women often do not report rape); 86 percent of rapes and sexual assaults upon Native women are perpetrated by non-Native men; few are prosecuted. (p. 319)”...more
2/17/2024 addendum: I read this in 2015. It was my first Baldwin novel. He has, with every book I read by him, become my vote for greatest writer of a2/17/2024 addendum: I read this in 2015. It was my first Baldwin novel. He has, with every book I read by him, become my vote for greatest writer of all time.
James Baldwin’s first novel “Go Tell It on the Mountain” was first published in 1953. It received critical acclaim and is considered by many literary critics to be one of the most important novels of the 20th century. It also helped to establish Baldwin as one of the premier black literary voices of his time.
I’m ashamed to say that I’ve never read Baldwin prior to this. I’m also ashamed to say that my knowledge and experience of black literature in general is woefully lacking. I plan to correct this, and so I have decided that, this year, during February, which is Black History Month, I plan on reading all of those books by black authors that have been on my “to read” list for years that I have never gotten around to reading, for whatever reason.
Starting with “Go Tell It on the Mountain” was a completely arbitrary decision, but it turned out to be a wise one. It is truly an amazing book.
Baldwin’s prose is beautiful. His story is a personal one. It is told with the visceral and emotional power of a memoir.
In the novel, which is set during one fateful day in the life of the protagonist, John Grimes (a thinly-veiled stand-in for Baldwin), a history of a single black family is examined. It is also an examination of racism in this country and the complex relationship that black people have with the Christian church.
John is fourteen years old, and he hates his father. In truth, he loves his father, but he doesn’t understand why his father, Gabriel, a Baptist preacher, seems to hate him and instead dotes on Roy, John’s younger brother.
Over the course of the novel, the reader begins to learn many things about John’s family, things that have remained hidden---and continue to remain hidden---from John, some for his own good and some to his detriment. The reader also begins to learn some things about John, things that remain unspoken---such as the strong hinting that John may be homosexual.
Through flashbacks, we learn about Gabriel’s wild youth and eventual conversion to the church. We learn about his first two tumultuous marriages and his eventual marriage to Elizabeth, a strong black woman who loves her husband but is beginning to suspect that he is not the “sinless” man that he pretends to be. We also learn that John is Elizabeth’s son to a man named Richard who killed himself after being wrongfully accused of a crime and then beaten by white police officers. John has no idea that he is not Gabriel’s biological son.
Events culminate during a nightly worship service, in which many ancient feelings and grudges are revealed. To say more would be spoilers.
Baldwin’s novel is written in the vernacular of the Christian church and Scripture, and it would seem, at first, that Baldwin is leading to a story of redemption and faith. On the contrary, Baldwin’s examination of the church is highly critical, especially in its portrayal of Gabriel’s shameful hypocrisy. He also seems to feel that the church has had a negative effect on blacks by making them forget, or ignore, the many horrible things that the world of white people have done and continue to do.
Interestingly, white people have little or no place in this book. This is not a criticism or an indictment. It’s an observation, but it’s also a praise. Baldwin does not whitewash (no pun intended) the truth of racial inequality. He does not pussyfoot. White people are portrayed, if at all, as either hateful perpetrators of racist violence or completely indifferent or ineffectual in the lives of black people.
Having never been black (and I don’t mean that as a flippant joke), I can not speak about the black experience. I don’t have one. I also have no frame of reference by which to judge Baldwin’s portrayal of his own (via the fictional John Grimes) experience. I certainly have no reason to doubt or question his experience, something that I’m sure many white readers may reflexively do when reading this novel.
Baldwin’s unflinching look at racism within society is raw, honest, and bleak. His harsh examination of the church and the Scriptural crutch that many black people use is also honest and blunt. It is this honesty that catapults this book into greatness. It truly deserves to be placed high on the list of Great Books of the 20th Century....more
Loading...
