Posts Tagged ‘novels’

ayn rand smilingI’ve always liked jokes that don’t advertise themselves as jokes, so I thoroughly enjoyed John Hodgman’s “Shouts & Murmurs” piece titled Ask Ayn Rand on The New Yorker website in which he pens fake columns from Parade Magazine for Ayn.

Part of the reason I like the “joke in disguise” is that so many things in life that sound like a joke are actually true. (Sex comes immediately to mind as an example.) That the absurd often seems plausible is one of the delights — and one of the lessons — of life.

I also like the “joke in disguise” because I’ve always been interested in just how many ridiculous things you can get away with saying, at least for a while, if you say them with a straight-enough face.  This probably explains my continuing interest in politics.

John Hodgman’s piece is a fine example of “the joke in disguise”. My reactions followed the usual life cycle of this humor: This is great! followed by This is funny! followed by Hey, wait a minute followed by Got me, John! When I reached this passage, I knew I had been gotten:

I do not hesitate to say, objectively, definitively, that “Caddyshack” is the year’s best movie. Rodney Dangerfield plays a self-made man who is not ashamed of his ambition, who does not apologize for his success, and who gets excitement from the joyful reality that we are all going to get laid if we are willing to be productively selfish and to stop coddling the weak.

I’m sure I liked Hodgman’s piece because I also like Ayn Rand humor. My Ayn Rand Talks Fantasy Football post remains one of my personal favorites, and as an ambitious and productively selfish blogger, I’m giving it a plug here. Unlike Hodgman’s piece, however, it is obviously a joke from the beginning.

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amazon is the devil?When a federal judge ruled that Apple was guilty of conspiring to fix the price of eBooks last week, the lamentations began.

Commentators declared this would lead to the destruction of the traditional publishers and the ascendance of Amazon as a monopolistic hegemon, which would use its vast market powers to homogenize and commoditize our reading culture. Also, frogs would rain down from the sky.

But I don’t think any such thing will happen. (Well, the frogs might.) Here’s why.

The Traditional Publishing Model Is Not Essential to Reading Culture

The traditional publishers think they are essential to reading culture because they were essential in the past and because (I’m quite sure) they are sincerely devoted to their craft.

But the only two actors who are essential to reading culture are writers and readers.  Publishers are … or were … a necessary intermediary between the writer and reader, back when printing books and getting them into the hands of readers were complicated, expensive operations.

Now these tasks aren’t necessarily complicated or expensive. There are plenty of new ways, many more than before, for writers and readers to connect. And as long as you have writers and readers, you’ll have a reading culture. Before I discuss why, however, let me make a semi-related point.

Good Books Have Always Been Bad Business

This is not to say you can’t make money from serious books or serious literature. You can. The problem is you can’t make enough money consistently to turn the proposition into a sustainable business.

This leaves publishers with two choices. The first is you have a huge company in which the blockbusters in popular genres subsidize the “serious” books. For publically traded companies, this is the only option because they will be punished by the markets if they lose money.

The second is you have a small company, privately held, in which the owners see themselves as patrons of and missionaries for writers as much as they see themselves as business people, and their financial goals don’t extend too much beyond avoiding bankruptcy.

The recent obituary for Arthur Rosenthal of Basic Books described this dynamic nicely when it said he “let his taste in nonfiction and his quasi indifference to profit margins guide him as a publisher”.

Now Amazon is making the lives of people who work within the huge company model a living hell. But it is making the small company model so easy that anyone with a computer and internet access can become a publisher.

Writers of Serious Books Are Adapting. Amazon Is Helping Them Do It

One of the assumptions in much of the recent wailing over Amazon’s victory is that only serious books are real books and only serious publishers are real publishers.

No one was fretting that the Dan Browns of the world would disappear because they knew they wouldn’t.  A hegemon Amazon would still publish Dan Brown because he makes a lot of money.

The commentators did worry that a hegemon Amazon would ignore the serious, unprofitable books. Well, maybe. But maybe not.  Amazon has demonstrated an almost pathological indifference to earning a profit over the years.  This would make them a perfect publisher for the Virginia Woolfs of the world. And perhaps they would like the prestige of a having such writers under their imprint?

But if not, Amazon has given writers the tools to directly publish and promote their own books. Amazon’s print-on-demand model allows small publishing companies to produce print books with very low overhead costs. Kindle Direct allows people to publish eBooks at basically no cost.

Everyone has a chance. Including the serious writers and important voices who are getting overlooked right now by those old gatekeepers of the reading culture, the traditional publishers.

The Government Doesn’t Just Punish Price Fixing. It Also Punishes Monopolies

Finally, remember that it is not only illegal to fix prices. It’s also illegal — not to become a monopoly, as it turns out talking to my FTC lawyer friend — but to use monopoly power to stifle competition. And the government departments that are aiding Amazon by ruling against Apple, so some people claim, are the same departments that would force Amazon to change its business practices or break up if it did.

We can’t risk that harm, you say? Well, under the legal system of the United States, you generally can’t punish companies because you think they will break the law. You have to wait until they actually do.

In the meantime, I encourage everyone to seize the new opportunities. They’re good fun. And you might make some art, or some cash, too.

Related Massey Posts

A few comments on “Book Publishers Scramble to Rewrite Their Future” by Evan Hughes

The NPR Interview with Mark Coker of Smashwords | Self-Publishing on eBook

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Kindle Fire

I am not a myth!

I don’t have a dog in the fight between Amazon and big publishers over eBooks – I’m just an irrelevant bystander — but I do think I can tell when someone is trying to sell me a bill of goods.

At least that’s how I felt about parts of “The Seven Deadly Myths of Digital Publishing” by Bill McCoy, which appeared on the Publishers Weekly website today. However, I agreed with other points in Bill’s argument and overall found the article well worth reading. Here are my notes:

Tablets and Large Screen Smartphones Are Transforming Digital Publishing

McCoy says that new devices along with new universal coding standards will allow electronic publishing to offer “highly-designed illustrated and enhanced digital books” as well as greater reader interaction and social engagement. He also believes that the differences between reading content on an eReader, a mobile phone app, or a website will be reduced, where as currently they are distinct formats. All of this will allow the eBook’s success to expand beyond their current domains in “novels and linear non-fiction”.

All this is interesting and cool and thanks to Bill for sharing. My problem is that his article implies that Amazon (the monster elephant in the room he doesn’t name) is vulnerable because they are reliant on a proprietary and outdated E Ink platform: that is the Kindle.

Which would be true if Amazon hadn’t launched the Kindle Fire in September of 2011, and wasn’t continuing to roll out enhanced versions at a fraction of the cost of an iPad ever since.

Plus, considering Amazon has a pretty decent on-demand video streaming service already live, I’d say they are thinking about how to deliver content through their own website.

Now this doesn’t mean that Amazon will be more successful seizing the opportunities of the future than big publishers; but I do think it shows that Amazon sees those opportunities as clearly as Bill does. And Amazon sure doesn’t look like it’s behind the curve.

Authors Still Need Publishers

On this one, I’d say Bill is on thin ice. If not swimming in open water. Anyhow, he makes several points. That writers will need publishers for their expertise in editing, cover design, typography, and marketing. That publishers can evolve into new roles as multi-media / multi-platform “producers” of content in collaboration with writers. And that publishers can find a role organizing communities around authors and readers interested in the same topics.

Well. Expertise is editing, cover design, typography, and marketing is not limited to publishers and there are an enormous number of experienced freelancers out there (many of whom used to work for the publishers’ until they were outsourced).  Literary agents have marketing skills and are at least as well positioned, maybe better positioned, to be creative collaborators with writers, not mention their business managers. And none of these folks are going to demand 90% of a book’s net revenue as compensation.

As for community creation, is a publisher going to want create a community around a topic in which they aren’t the dominant publisher? And if they are the dominant publisher, are people going to believe that community ISN’T a form of advertising run by a big company for which they are working as unpaid copywriters?

I ain’t sure.

Now Bill is right that authors still need publishers. But the authors who need publishers most are the unknown ones – ie, the ones least likely to make them money. Will Stephen King still need a major imprint in five years? Maybe not.

And Let’s Not Forget About Amazon’s Huge Sales Pipe

Last summer, Forrester research stated that 30% of all online shoppers begin with Amazon to research products. Not Google. Not Bing-Yahoo. Amazon. Yikes.

Why? Well, people know they can find a lot of stuff they want to buy, at reasonable prices, with convenient shipping on Amazon. Getting them to change their habits and say, buy eBooks direct from a publisher platform, is going to take some major heavy lifting – most especially, offering some new product or service of such compelling value the people have a good selfish reason to switch.

Otherwise, publishers can innovate eBooks all they want. But they are still going to need to sell a lot of them through Amazon, because that’s where readers want to buy them right now.

And Let’s Not Forget About 70% Royalties and the Power of Social Media to Bypass All the Old Gatekeepers

And while I’m walloping away at Bill – who is doubtless a nice man and doesn’t deserve it – let’s not forget about 70% net royalties from eBooks published through Amazon versus 10% give or take from publishers for print books. With those numbers, authors could sell fewer total units of just eBooks at a lower cost through Amazon and still make more money. Ouch.

Plus, social media can be a highly effective way to market books, but publishers really can’t do it for authors. Who would you rather follow on Twitter? Dan Brown or the marketing assistant assigned to tweet about Dan Brown books at Doubleday?

So Pete, You’d Never Sign a Contract with a Traditional Publisher Then, Right?

Are you kidding? In a second. I am one of the unknowns in desperate need of their help. I love you, Doubleday, you big beautiful handsome company you. Call me!

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Queen of the Nude

Chapter 1


Cover for "Queen of the Nude" by Peter Galen MasseyStephen and Helen Demetrius walked hand in hand along the sandy path toward the beach.  The way was hot and airless and it followed the shore of a pond separated from the Atlantic by a high dune.  Stephen and Helen couldn’t see the ocean, but they could hear the hush of the waves sometimes, and the cry of gulls, and the drone of insects in the brush.  The trail climbed along the dune and Stephen and Helen followed, pausing at the top to consider the view.  The sky was a transparent blue vaguely shimmering over the water.  The pond stretched away to their left, while to their right the land rose and became the Marblehead Cliffs.  In front of them was a length of white sand with the Atlantic falling softly against it.  Sunbathers and swimmers were scattered sparsely up and down the beach.

“This is perfect,” Helen said, removing her wide-brimmed straw hat to kiss Stephen and then setting down her canvas bag and beach chair to hug him.


“Don’t you think?” Helen asked.  She leaned back and stared at Stephen with amused disbelief.  He kissed her back, doing his best to imitate her smile.  “We’re in a beautiful place.  We have two weeks vacation together.  And forty-five minutes ago, you were making love to me.  All that doesn’t add up to perfect?”

Stephen looked embarrassed.  “Yes, it does.”

Helen examined her husband seriously, then scratched his cheek with her fingers.  “Don’t be glum.  You’ve just been working too hard for too long, is all, like I’ve been telling you.  You’ll get a good rest here and you’ll be ready to go back to life just as we’ve always lived it.  Trust me.  I know you.”

“I’m not so sure,” Stephen told her, glancing away.  He loved Helen to all appearances, and admired how certain she was about her life, but he didn’t necessarily want for himself everything Helen wanted for him, and Stephen wasn’t convinced his wife understood the difference.  “I’m weary of Manhattan, Helen … and of spending all day thinking of clever ways to make people buy things they don’t need.”  Stephen rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, squeezing his brow into a frown as he did.  “I want something else, someplace else.  I wish I could tell you what.”

“Well,” Helen replied, “let’s see how it goes.  We don’t have to figure it all out today.”

“No,” Stephen agreed, “we don’t.”

Helen picked up her bag and chair, and she and Stephen continued walking.  Helen was right, Stephen considered.  He was being stupid and ungrateful.  They were together, and the day was beautiful, and they were about to meet old friends, at least two of whom Stephen was certain they would be glad to see.  The third was more of a question.  But regardless of that, and regardless of the problems waiting for them back in the city, he wanted to do nothing to ruin their first day on the island, for either Helen or himself.

“So what’s Tania like again?”

Stephen squinted, perplexed by the question, and made a clicking noise with
his tongue.  “I really don’t know anymore.  Lyle and Mia tell me she’s changed since college.”

“What was she like in college, then?” Helen continued.

“Well.”  Stephen rubbed his chin for effect.  “Sort of a pain in the ass, to tell you the truth.”

Helen laughed.  “Oh, that sounds promising.  And we’re staying at her house?”

“Only for a few days,” Stephen replied.  He was smiling and gazing into the distance of the ocean.  “I suppose I was too, back then, a pain in the ass, I mean – at least to Tania.  She always seemed to inspire my more particular side.”

“The one that’s critical and relentless and unforgiving?” Helen interrupted, asking her question with a smug smile.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Stephen agreed.  “Are you teasing?”

“Of course.”

“In any case,” Stephen continued, “Lyle and Mia say she’s changed since then, and they are usually reliable on such matters.  Mia is anyhow.”

“Yes, she is.”

They walked several steps and Stephen’s attention drifted away from the topic of conversation.  The sun was warm, and he lost himself in the long slow breathing of the ocean and how the light danced like diamonds on its surface.

“And what is Tania to you?” Helen asked.

“To me?” Stephen echoed, making sure he’d heard the question right.  “For my part, an old friend, of sorts.”

“Meaning…” Helen prompted.  She was smiling, and her voice was cheerful, but Helen was determined to get her information.

“Meaning I never slept with her.”

“Good,” Helen said.  She digested this fact with satisfaction and kissed her husband.  Then an expression of sympathy and concern crossed her face.  “So you had no lover, then, that summer you were here with Tania and Mia in the theater group.”

“No comment,” Stephen said.  He knew that anonymous girlfriends, firmly fixed in the distant past, did not threaten Helen.

“Mia will tell me.”

“I pay Mia a tidy monthly sum to keep the secrets of my college years just that.”

“We’ll see!” Helen laughed.  “The friendships between women are stronger than the friendships between men and women.”

The path led down to the beach.  They turned left, expecting to find their companions in that direction based on Stephen’s old memories and a note from Mia, happy in its emotion but hazy in its directions, which he carried in his pocket.  The first person they passed was a naked man with a deep tan and long shaggy hair, and the fact of his nudity jolted them momentarily, even though they were expecting it.  The man walked with his shoulders hunched forward and his hands dangling by his sides, and this slack posture reflected the general condition of his body.  He was a thin man who seemed to have gained a little weight around the middle entirely for the purpose of having it hang off him unbecomingly.   His penis was small and pale and mostly lost in the black thicket of his pubic hair.  He meandered down the sand with such a lack of intensity that Stephen considered he might wander off one of the cliffs and not take note of it for several minutes.  Stephen wondered, too, if it was the normality of the man’s appearance that was unsettling.  It wasn’t nakedness, but the lack of beauty, that offended American eyes.  Then he considered how forlorn their race looked, mortal and graceless, unclothed.  Helen commented to herself that if she looked like that, she would keep her pants and her shirt on.  She would have been perfectly willing to give the man her hat, if he agreed to carry it in front of him until he got home.

“That reminds me,” Helen said, once the man was well past.  “Are they really nudists?  Lyle and Mia, and Tania?”

Stephen glanced at Helen and shrugged.  “Yes, so I’m told.  Although I doubt we’ll see Mia out of her suit.  It isn’t her thing.  But Tania will be.”

“I’ll bet you’ll like that, looking at naked women for days on end.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Stephen said.  “Actually, the person I’m really looking forward to ogling is Lyle.”

“Ugh!  I’ve prepared myself.  I’ve braced myself.  But I can’t say I’m looking forward.  The Speedo he wore in Jamaica the other year was more than enough.  Less than enough, rather.”

“Well, wait until you see the package unbound.  He’s big as a sausage and uncircumcised.  Quite a sight.”

Helen knocked the back of Stephen’s head with her fist.  “I had a wax before we left New York, but don’t expect me to walk around without my bikini.  The world doesn’t need to see my private parts, and the sun doesn’t need to burn them.  Besides, I’m not keen on the idea of winding up on some creep’s masturbation website.”

“I’m sure everyone will respect your right to wear what you want.”

“I’m sure,” Helen said.  “What about you?”

“Me?  Today, no.  I didn’t put suntan lotion on the proper places.  But maybe later.”

“Did you last time?”

“Yes, some.”

“What was it like?”

“Rather unnerving for the first hour or two, but then it didn’t seem all that much different.  And – I know this is going to sound stupid – it really was relaxing.”

“Well, you were right about it sounding stupid.”

Stephen and Helen approached the more populated part of the beach and began looking for Tania or Lyle or Mia.  Of the people there, approximately half were nude.  Of these, men were more common than women, and those approaching or past middle age were more common than the young.  Stephen saw two large deep-blue canvas umbrellas set close to each other, and walked toward them wondering if they were the ones mentioned in the note.

As he and Helen drew closer, they spotted Mia stretched out in a beach chair reading with a sun-burned man lying at her feet who Stephen assumed was Lyle.  Mia looked up and recognized them nearly as quickly, and rose to her feet waving.  Then Lyle rose and joined her, throwing an arm around Mia and grinning at his friends.  Lyle was naked and Mia was topless.  They watched Stephen and Helen cross the last fifty feet to the umbrellas.

The smile Mia gave Stephen and Helen was the same as ever, sunny and unaffected, although her posture seemed more forward and self-possessed than it had been in the past.  Mia’s breasts surprised Helen as much as they surprised Stephen, but they made her much less uncomfortable.  Helen was used to seeing other women, since she showered at the gym after her regular work-outs, and there had been two or three occasions, during some holiday or weekend visit, when she and Mia had changed in each other’s company.  Stephen had the benefit of none of this experience, however, and more than the surprise, it was a stab of desire, as strong as it was unwelcome, that upset him.  His life was complicated enough, and he didn’t like lusting after his friends, no matter how involuntarily.  Stephen had enough time to replace the look of frozen astonishment on his face with a characteristic grin before he drew close, but most of his attention was still focused on not staring at Mia and this made his conversation odd and awkward.  By contrast, Helen was not upset by Lyle’s penis, and she had expected to be.

“Mia, you look wonderful!” Helen said, putting down her chair and removing her hat to give Mia a long hug.  As Helen did, she glanced over at Stephen and lifted her eyebrows.

“And you,” Mia replied.  “I’m glad you’re here!”

“Helen,” Lyle said and opened his arms wide in greeting.

“I’m not hugging you until you put some pants on Lyle,” she announced, “but lean in and I’ll give you a kiss.”  This he did, and Helen greeted Lyle quite nicely, then put her hat back on.  “It’s nice to see you – almost all of you, that is.  One or two things, depending on how you want to group them, I could do without.”

“Charmed.  Dedalus!” Lyle mock roared, and threw his arm around Stephen’s shoulder.  Stephen would have returned the gesture, but he was still carrying his chair and bag.  “Look at you, fit as ever.  I myself have gained a little weight.”

“I didn’t think you could take so much time away from the brokerage,” Mia said to Helen.

“You do look a little squashy around the middle,” Stephen remarked, putting down what he was carrying.

“The market isn’t exactly hot right now,” Helen said.  “And I’ve earned it.”

“Mia, great to see you,” Stephen said and kissed her on the cheek, holding her shoulders lightly with his hands and hoping to forestall the embrace Mia gave him anyway.  He was glad his t-shirt lay between them, at least, but the fabric offered no protection against the smile Mia turned on him afterwards.  They were old friends, so it made sense that she would look at him fondly, but Mia had a way of crinkling her eyes at Stephen that seemed to hint at secret sympathies between them, at confidences and agreed feelings that no one else knew or suspected.  This look was partially his fault. At times over the years, Stephen had bantered flirtatiously with Mia, and had been vain enough to enjoy the attraction mixed in with all the jokes; but now was another case and Mia’s look was different too.

“How long have you been here?” Stephen asked, too jauntily he realized, sounding forced when he should have sounded comfortable.  He motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, then felt ridiculous because this gesture made no sense.

“About an hour, I think.”  Mia said.  “We came with Tania, who’s over there on those rocks meditating.”  Mia pointed at a woman who was too far away to recognize as Tania or not.  “No sense interrupting her; won’t do any good.  She’ll come over when she’s done.”

“Right.  Good enough,” Lyle said.  “Come on, Dedalus.  Let’s see if you can still throw the pigskin.”

“Okay,” Stephen said, relieved.  “If that’s all right?” he asked the women.

“Sure,” Mia said.

“Yes, Stephen, go ahead,” Helen replied.

“Right.”  He touched the brim of his Yankees cap.  “We’ll be back then.”

The men trotted off and the women watched them go.   Helen unfolded her own chair and lay back in it with a delicious sigh.  “Ah, wonderful.”

“Is Stephen okay?” Mia asked, taking her chair again but still sitting up to watch his back recede toward the sea.  “He’s acting goofy.”

“I believe your boobs scared him,” Helen said with a laugh.

“Did they?” Mia asked and looked down quizzically.  They were full, pretty, and rested close to her chest, but none of these qualities struck her as frightening.  “Why?”

“Oh, took him by surprise, I suspect.  I admit I was a little surprised myself.  We talked about it and figured you’d be dressed.”

“Should I put this back on?”  Mia asked and held up her top.

“No, not a bit,” Helen said firmly.  “It’s more fun to watch him sweat.  Besides, I gave him something else to think about before we came down to the beach.”

“All right,” Mia said and lay back in her chair in a posture that imitated Helen’s.  “I didn’t expect this would bother him.  We’ve known each other for so many years.”

“He thinks it isn’t polite to look at his friends like that,” Helen said.

“But if the looking bothered me, I wouldn’t be like this.”

“Yes, I know.  Doesn’t matter.”  Helen was silent for a moment.  “I am going to lie here for a minute, perfectly still, and then I want you to tell me all about how your semester went.  And Lyle’s new coffeehouse.”

Helen did exactly that, then stood, took off her hat and shirt, rubbed the exposed skin of her shoulders, breasts, and stomach to be sure of her sunscreen, sat back down, and smiled at Mia.  Helen’s sunglasses were like the ones Jackie O wore.  “How were your kids this spring?”

“They were great, they really were,” Mia said, beaming.  “We had a lot of fun.
A good group.  There were things I decided to teach that I don’t always, but I knew they would get it.  Really, there’s some stuff they are going to see in high school biology we already did.  I’m really proud of them.”

“Never feel like doing something else and getting paid more?”

“Don’t underestimate the salary of a unionized public school teacher,” Mia told Helen.  “And do something else?  No.  I found what I like.”

“I’m glad,” Helen said and reached over to pat her hand, “and you know I’m not criticizing, don’t you?”


“I love the game on the Street, but I can’t say I always love the job.  Which is why there are the compensations.”  This thought hung between them for a few moments.

“And how’s Lyle’s latest venture doing?” Helen asked, with an exaggerated sigh of resignation.

“The coffeehouse is really popular, actually.”

“Is it making money?”

“That’s another matter,” Mia said, raising a loose hand and dropping it again.  With the gesture, she alluded to a string of other careers and schemes Lyle had passionately pursued, until his interest had faded or a problem more difficult than he anticipated had appeared.  None had ever done much better than break even, and more often Mia and Lyle had ended up a few thousand dollars poorer for the experience.  “It isn’t losing money, which is almost good enough.  And it is an amazing scene right now.  Musicians who started playing at the coffeehouse last fall are now playing all over Boston, and a couple are talking to record companies.  A few local writers Lyle’s invited have packed the space, people literally standing outside the window to listen.  Lyle seems to have this sense of what people want.  This could be it.  At long last, Lyle might have finally found his bliss.”

“Is that what you think?” Helen asked.

“I don’t know,” Mia said, sounding indifferent to the question.  “I do love Lyle for his enthusiasm – he still thinks the perfect thing is out there and he can find it.  But it gets a little tiring.  And I sometimes wish I could just drop teaching and do whatever I took a notion to and let him worry about the mortgage for once.”

Helen made a sympathetic noise.

“How are you two doing?” Mia asked.

“Oh, fine.  Wall Street is Wall Street, no more or less honest than usual, or I’m mistaken.  Stephen has been busy, of course, since he was made vice president in March.”

“He was?” Mia said with surprise.

“Yes,” Helen replied.  “He didn’t tell you?”

Mia shook her head.

“And Lyle doesn’t know either?”

“He probably would have mentioned it, if he’d known, but then again, you know Lyle.”

Helen shrugged at the mystery of her husband.  “I know pride is a sin, but he could brag a little.  Or not brag, but say as much as is true, at least.  This is key.  This job is the place where he can earn the choice of what do next, the whole business.”

“Maybe he’s not sure that’s what he wants,” Mia suggested.

“Oh no,” Helen said.  “Advertising is a good industry for him.  He knows it.”

Mia accepted this answer.  The two women sat quietly watching the glittering sea.  A naked older woman walked by, and Helen remembered the kind of beach at which she was.

In the meantime, the men had walked down to an open area of sand and were tossing Lyle’s football back and forth.  Stephen was the more natural athlete of the two, but Lyle enjoyed playing more, so over time their skills had grown close to equal.  Lyle certainly had the better arm.  He threw tight spirals and could drop the ball right in Stephen’s hands no matter where he stood or in which direction he was running.  By contrast, Stephen’s passes wobbled in the air and he used muscle to compensate for his lack of technique, which meant he sometimes lobbed the ball clean over Lyle’s head and sometimes zipped it past his outstretched hands.

“Ease up a bit, Dedalus.  I’m banging around all over the place with all this running.”

“Sorry.  I can’t get the motion right.  It’s been a while since I played anything that didn’t involve a racket.  Damned business.”

“Throw straight from your shoulder and roll the ball off your fingertips.  Are you remembering to release your thumb first?”

“No I’m not.”

“Try that.”

They continued and Stephen found a better touch on the ball and they settled into a rhythm.  Lyle was surprisingly swift and agile for his size, and Stephen reflected that if his friend hadn’t continued to play soccer, he would probably be even heavier.  He didn’t have a belly yet, but Lyle’s lower torso was slowly expanding in diameter and his jowls displayed the first signs of a fleshiness that was likely to consume the profile of his chin in middle age.  Lyle’s nudity didn’t particularly bother Stephen.  Lyle had been an enthusiastic streaker and skinny-dipper at school, enough so that most of the campus must have seen him naked at one point or another, and Stephen more times than he could count.  Their first year, Lyle liked to wake himself up by playing Brian Eno on the stereo and marching around their room in the buff.  Once it got cold, he did this with the windows open.  Another time, toward the end of a party during their third year, Lyle passed out in a chair in their room.  When Stephen went to check on him, he discovered that Lyle’s body wasn’t the only thing that was upright, so Stephen sensibly dropped one of his Lacrosse gloves over the offending member and left.  When Stephen returned an hour later, Lyle was still wearing the glove.  After this, it was easy enough for Stephen to ignore Lyle’s penis – certainly much easier than it was to ignore Mia’s breasts.  Stephen played the entire time with his back to the two women.  His throwing improved, but it still wasn’t perfect.

“So, how’s your girlfriend?” Lyle asked.

Stephen had the ball over his shoulder when Lyle offered this question.  He threw hard at his friend.

“Whoa, there’s that spiral!”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,”  Stephen told Lyle, approaching him with a mingled look of anger and embarrassment on his face, “and I never did, not the way you’re thinking.  She was a friend, and I admit I was stupid not to notice sooner that she was feeling something more, and maybe I was too, but I did notice before … our feelings went too far.  And our feelings were the only thing that went too far, all right?”

“Okay, settle down, settle down, I believe you, I wasn’t trying to imply, really,” Lyle said, walking toward Stephen.  “I was just asking – I was trying to ask and doing a piss-poor job of it, I mean – how you and Helen are doing now.”

“Oh, fine, just dandy,” Stephen said, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers.

“Well, that sounds promising.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Want to talk about it?”


Lyle lifted his eyebrows high on his forehead and inclined his head toward Stephen.  “Have you talked about it with Helen?”

“I’ve tried,” Stephen said.  He took the football from Lyle and squeezed it along the seams.  “You know how she can be, when something doesn’t match the picture of the world she’s painted for herself.”

“Umm,” Lyle grunted.  “So what’s wrong?”

Stephen laughed.  “I don’t know.”

“You mean to tell me,” Lyle asked, “that you’re acting like a miserable bollocks over a mystery problem?”

“Am I acting miserable?”

“Not exactly, for the most part,” Lyle told him.  “Well?”

“Well,” Stephen agreed.  “I suppose … I don’t know.  I’m afraid I’m falling out of love with Helen, maybe.”

Lyle whistled soberly.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know either, could be, until just now,” Stephen said, “when you asked me and I had to think about the answer.”

This part of the conversation called for Lyle to stick his hands in his pockets, look down, and scuff the sand with the ball of his foot.  But since Lyle wasn’t wearing pants, with or without pockets, he had to settle for running his fingers through his hair.  “Is it you or her?”

“Well, you know,” Stephen told him.  “Helen’s beautiful.  And smart.  And funny.  And she loves me.  So of course it follows that it has to be her.”

“Of course.”

“Doesn’t make any sense, does it?”


“Look, never mind me, Lyle,” Stephen said and tossed him back the football.  He waved a hand around one side of his head.  “I’m just stuck too deep inside my own brain and have thought my way into a muddle.  It’s nonsense.  It’s a mood.  It will pass.  Helen’s great, and I’m acting like an idiot.”

“You sure?” Lyle asked.


Lyle wasn’t certain he believed Stephen, but he knew him too well to think he could argue against Stephen’s declaration with any success.

“Can we talk about something else?” Stephen asked.

“Sure,” Lyle said.  His expression changed.  “So, what do you think of Mia’s breasts?  Pretty nice, huh?  They’ve really popped out.  I had figured she was going to be skinny and itty-bitty for ever.  No sir.  I may be getting heavier, but yes Jesus, so is she. I’d love her either way, you know, but I’m definitely not complaining about the supplemental hooterage.”

“I’m not looking at Mia’s breasts.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Lyle told him.  “And I’m not looking at Helen’s ass.  Which looks great, by the way.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.  I can guarantee, with mathematical certainty that you have seen as much of Helen’s body today as you are ever going to.”

“We’ll see.  The island has magical properties.”  Lyle twirled one finger in the air.  “Come on, I’m sweaty.  Let’s go swimming.”  Stephen took off his shirt and cap and joined him.  The coldness of the ocean shocked his body as he entered, but it soon felt great.  Stephen splashed about in the waves, then swam out and floated on his back.  The noise of the world was reduced to a hushed gurgle, the salt taste of the ocean was in his mouth, and he rocked weightlessly on the surface of the water.  Stephen cleared his mind and surrendered to these few simple sensations.  He’d forgotten how uncomplicated the beach made life.  The sky above him was vast and featureless, an endless blue he found both empty and comforting.  He flexed his toes, which were peeking above the water, and closed his eyes.  Eventually, Lyle swam over and tapped him, and Stephen followed his friend out of the ocean, and back across the sand to their women.

“How was it?” Helen asked Stephen.

“The water is nice if you’re hot.”  Stephen grabbed his right shoulder with his left hand and rotated his throwing arm in a wide circle.  “I’m stiff.  Haven’t done that in a while.”

Mia stood and poked Lyle’s shoulders with one finger.  “I think you should get out of the sun.  Lyle dragged his chair under the shade of the umbrellas and stretched himself out.  Stephen spread his towel on the sand and lay face down on it with his eyes closed.

“Did you boys catch up?” Helen asked him.

“Mmmmrph,” Stephen replied.

“Yes, we’re all set, thank you, Hel,” Lyle remarked.  “We traded recipes and everything.”

Everyone was silent after this.  Stephen and Helen shared some water, then Stephen took his book from the bag and sat in his chair to read.  For a while, the soft scraping of the new pages in Stephen’s book and the hushed roar of the ocean were the only sounds.  Eventually, Mia looked up from her own paperback and said, “Helen said you were promoted, Stephen.  Congratulations.”

“To what?”  Lyle asked, looking up.  He’d been dozing.

“VP,” Stephen said.


“It’s no big deal.”

“Sounds like a big deal,” Lyle told him.

“See what I mean,” Helen remarked aside to Mia.  “Modest.”

“It’s not modesty,” Stephen said and stood up.  He squinted at the horizon.  “It’s hard to turn down a promotion.  Say ‘no’ in Manhattan and they think you’re holding out for more money or have lost your mind.”

Stephen tried to think up a new topic for conversation.  He was saved from this by the distant approach of a figure that Stephen thought might be Tania.  She was no longer seated on the rock Mia had pointed out earlier.  “Well, am I right?” he announced.  “Here comes Tania.”

Mia stood and rested a familiar hand on Stephen’s shoulder and shaded her eyes with the other.  “Yes, you’re right.”  Lyle remained seated, but Helen had a quick look at her face and hair in her compact and then rose to stand next to Stephen.  Tania’s form shimmered in the heat, but Stephen recognized it.  She still walked like the dancer she never really was, not seriously, pointing her toe before setting it down, and there was still a deliberate languor in her step, which had become more relaxed and refined over the years, but which continued to serve its intended function of drawing the attention of the people around her.  So did her hair, which was permed into waves and riven with blond highlights and hung halfway down her back.  Tania turned one side of her face and then the other into the breeze, so that her hair flowed out behind her better.  She looked heavier to Stephen.  The flesh of Tania’s hips creased as she walked, and her breasts seemed to have gained some volume and lost some shape, but there was an unmistakable air of fitness and good health about her, and she was much less tan than Stephen had expected, considering how dark she had become during the summer they had spent on the island.  Stephen was interested in Tania’s body, but only with the idle and automatic attention most men pay to most women, and his looking was partially motivated by the desire to get it out of the way.  He figured he’d be seeing a lot of Tania, and the sooner he’d grown used to her naked, the better.  Stephen didn’t think this would be too hard to achieve.  He had a hard time lusting after women he wasn’t sure he liked.

When Tania drew close enough to recognize Stephen, a smile of pleasure spread across her face and her step quickened.  She held out her arms to him before she was closer than ten feet and called his name.

“Stephen!” she exclaimed and took his hands.  “After all these years,” she said and hugged him.  Stephen returned the embrace lightly, but not as awkwardly as he would have guessed.  “Thank you for coming.”

“I’m happy to be here.”

“And you must be Helen,” Tania continued, releasing Stephen and turning to his wife.  Tania held Helen’s hands and smiled at her.  “Thank you for coming, too.  I know it can be difficult, being surrounded by someone else’s friends.  We’ll do our best to make you feel welcome.”

“I feel welcome already,” Helen replied.

“Good.”  Tania kissed Helen on each cheek, then gave her hands an extra squeeze before releasing them.  She smiled between the couple.  “I’m sorry for the weather last night.  To be stuck in a Providence hotel instead of here!  Did you have trouble flying over this morning?”

“None at all,” Stephen told her.

“I’m glad,” Tania said.  She stopped and stared at Stephen’s face, then took it in her hands and moved his head from side to side, as if she were examining a vase or porcelain bowl.  “You look older, Stephen … and less sure of yourself.”

“Ha!” he laughed, as much in recognition of Tania’s former way of speaking as at the remark itself.  “And you’re as dramatic as ever, Tania, although I like your lines better when someone else is writing them for you.”

“Am I still dramatic?” Tania asked.  “I’m sorry for it then.  I thought I had grown up a little, at least, since last we saw each other.  You do look older, wiser, more serious.  Less bright.  The light inside you has dimmed a little since Oberlin.  I hope I haven’t hurt you saying these things.”

“Not at all,” Stephen told her.

“The three of us should talk,” Tania said, looking at Stephen and Helen.  “Get to know each other and catch up and not, I hope, discuss old times too much.  There were some happy times, but more it might be better not to dwell on.”  Tania seemed to consider these, then closed her eyes and dismissed them with a shake of her head.  “But if you’ll let me, I’d like to talk in the evening.  I’ve been in the sun enough today, I think, and I try to work every day in my studio in the afternoon.”

“Of course,” Helen told her.  “The day, the beach, the ocean are beautiful.  We are happy here.”

Tania nodded her head eagerly in agreement.  “The beauty of Nature is a blessing.  And no matter what troubles are bothering my heart, they never bother me when I’m here on a day like this.  I’m glad to see you all!  Come back when you are ready, and we’ll talk and eat this evening.”

Tania smiled at her friends once more, then walked away toward her house.

“Well, she’s a hoot,” Helen said once Tania was out of earshot, “but nicer than Stephen led me to think.  Wonderfully warm and welcoming.”

“Yes,” Stephen agreed.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had so much female flesh pressed against me at one time.”

“I told you she had changed,” Mia said to Stephen.  “And much for the better.”

“Yes,” Stephen agreed again.  “She does seem happier, and I’m glad for it. I didn’t think I would see the day when Tania was thoughtful, however.  Unfair of me, I guess.”

“No,” Mia told him.  “It would have been unfair only if you still judged her on the way she used to be.”

“Let’s have a snack,” Helen suggested.  The four friends made a meal of the food they had, then sat reading and resting.  Afterwards, they took a walk down the beach.  Helen and Stephen swam after they returned to the umbrellas, while Mia and Lyle simply walked in and out of the water to cool off.  Once Helen and Steven were dry, Helen put her long shirt and hat back on, and announced she was returning to the house.

“I’m sure I’ve had enough sun for one day,” she said.  “I suppose I’ll walk.  I don’t think all three of you will fit in one canoe with the chairs and umbrellas.”

Mia leaned over the armrest of her chair to poke Lyle, who was lying face up in the sun.  The spot she chose blushed faintly and she poked him again.  “Why don’t you go with Helen, Lyle,” she told him.   “You’ve had enough sun for today, too, and it will save Helen a long hot trip.”

Lyle sat up, considered this suggestion, then shrugged in agreement.  “Well, I suppose you’re right.  I could ride my bike, too, get some more exercise.  I’ll take the chairs and one umbrella, Hel, if you’ll carry my bag.”

“Sure.  Are you going to put your pants on now?”

“Nah, the neighbors don’t care.”

“Right,” Helen said.  She braced herself on the arms of Stephen’s chair and gave him a long kiss.  “You’ll behave down here without me, won’t you?” she asked.


“All right, big boy, let’s go,” she told Lyle.  They gathered their possessions and left.   Stephen decided Helen and Mia’s advice about the sun was sensible, so he put his t-shirt and cap back on.  He read his book and after a time, stopped to drink from one of the water bottles.

“Alone at last,” Mia commented.

“Yes,” Stephen agreed, nodding but not looking up from his book.

Mia gazed out at the ocean and absent-mindedly scratched her shoulder.  The sun was hotter, and a fine sheen of sweat coated her body.  “So, did you and Lyle have a good chat?”

“Yes, pretty good,” Stephen said.

“What did you talk about?”

“Nothing really,” Stephen replied.  “How to throw a football.”

“You men!” Mia laughed.  “That’s not a talk.  You’re both impossible.”

“I’m sure we’ll get to it, Mia.  There’s time.  We’ll take some beers to the beach one night, and a list of topics you can write up for us, and we’ll go through the whole thing.”

“Helen and I talked for a while, Mia said.

“Mmm.”  Stephen had returned to his book.

“From chatting with her, I wouldn’t know you two have been … well, having problems I guess.  Helen didn’t mention it, certainly.”  Stephen stopped reading and raised his head, but didn’t look at Mia.  The waves were barely running up the sand. A retired couple walked by, wearing matching sun hats.

“I didn’t know you knew,” he said.

“Lyle told me,” Mia replied.


“How do you feel about that?”

“Mia …” Stephen began tersely.  He sighed.  “Do we need to talk about this?”

“We’re very old friends.”

“I know.”  Stephen looked at Mia when he said this.  He kept his eyes steadily on her eyes, but Mia’s breasts were in the same view and unavoidable.  Stephen held her gaze for a while, to make his point.  He looked away.

“You seem sadder than usual,” Mia said.

Stephen laughed.  “I’m not sad!”

“You’re always sad, Stephen, that’s your great secret.  Lyle doesn’t see it.  Helen doesn’t see it.  But I do.  It’s there.”

“You think I’m sad.  Tania thinks I’m uncertain,” Stephen remarked.  “I’ve become quite an object of study to the subsidiary women in my life, it seems.”

“One of the ways you keep it secret – even from yourself – is to make jokes like that.”

“I’m not sad, Mia,” Stephen said.


“No.  I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life, spending it selling diamonds and sports cars and coffee that costs fifty dollars a pound, particularly since one day, looking out the window of my office, I saw twenty-five hundred people die in Lower Manhattan; but just because I have doubts about my job doesn’t mean I’m suffering through a major crisis or depression.”

“And this woman-friend of yours?”

“Was just that, a friend,” Stephen told her evenly.

“I had thought, from what Lyle told me about your conversations, that it was a bit more complicated.”

Stephen considered this for a moment, then put down his book.  There was no way to dismiss the subject without hurting Mia’s feelings, and Stephen wasn’t willing to hurt them.  “Yes, I suppose it was a bit more complicated, but it wasn’t what you think.”

“How does Helen feel about her?”

“Helen doesn’t know about her, exactly.”

“Exactly,” Mia repeated, blinking.  “What does ‘exactly’ mean?”

“It means that I found it easier to say I was working late because of my new job and Helen found it easier to believe me.”

“Do you think that was really a good idea?”

“I think it was a lousy idea, Mia,” Stephen replied, “but that’s how it is.  Try to discuss certain topics with Helen and she bolts like a rabbit.  So I ended up talking about them to a woman who wasn’t Helen, and lying to Helen about what I was doing, and creating two more problems I couldn’t discuss with my wife in the process.”

“But you didn’t sleep with this friend,” Mia said.

“No, I did not,” Stephen agreed.  “But I thought about sleeping with her after a while, however, which is just as bad.”

“And what could be more like you!” Mia laughed.

“How so?” Stephen asked sharply.

“Because you are always so serious when it comes to sex,” Mia said.  “More than most people.”

“No more than most people.”

“Yes, more than most!” Mia told him laughing.  “I know you, remember.  Since you were nineteen.  Sex is always a serious business to Stephen Demetrius.  All bound up with trust and integrity and loyalty.”  Mia pronounced these last two sentences in a solemn tone, with a pretend frown on her face.  “That’s why you stopped fooling around with me here, all those summers ago.  Remember?”

“You mock me, madam,” Stephen said.  They hadn’t discussed this subject in a long time and Stephen didn’t want to discuss it now.

“No, I don’t.  I love you,” Mia said, with her crinkled-eyed smile.  “I don’t mock anyone I love.”

“And it was right to stop,” Stephen continued.  “That was after you started seeing Lyle.”

“Just after.  No more than a few months.”

“No matter.”

“We were young and we were here.  It was no great fault.  Lyle and I were just having fun.  We didn’t know if we were serious or not.  I’m sure he wouldn’t care now.”

Stephen stared hard at the sea.  “I think you underestimate, Mia, how men feel about their women even for all the free talking they may do otherwise.”

“Grump, grump, grump,” Mia said.  “In any case, I’ve kept your little secret.  Lyle doesn’t know.  Neither does Helen.”

“Secrets kept for so long are no longer little, regardless of their original size, Mia,” Stephen told her with a sigh.  “It’s the keeping that ends up making them important.  I owed Lyle better.”

“You never, before, during, or since, have done anything Lyle could blame you for.”

“That doesn’t get me off the hook, exactly, does it?”

“Yes, I know,” Mia agreed.  “I know that’s how you think.  You wouldn’t be you, and I wouldn’t love you half as much, if you felt otherwise.  But I’m not sorry and I don’t feel guilty and I don’t think you are caught on any hook because of it.  And I don’t think you’ve done much wrong now to Helen, either.  You’re the only man I know who can feel guilty about not cheating on his wife. You have to be more gentle with yourself, Stephen.  Everyone except you knows you deserve it.”

Stephen didn’t say anything.  It was no use telling Stephen to be less hard on himself.  He knew it.  But there was this assassin voice, lurking in the back of his head, waiting to strike, and Stephen had never been able to silence it.  Perhaps he never would.

Stephen didn’t want to talk about himself any more, and they had drifted far enough from Mia’s original question that Stephen thought he could change the subject without seeming to do so.

“And sex is serious business, or serious enough, anyway, Mia.  It’s not like other pleasures.  You know, I don’t understand the ‘arrangement’ you and Lyle have.  He’s explained it, of course, but it’s all still very dim.”

“What’s to understand?  Or do you mean, you don’t approve.”  Mia smiled at Stephen when she said this.  She was neither offended nor defensive.

“No, I don’t think it’s wrong,” Stephen said.  “As long as you’re not hurting each other or someone else.  It just seems to me … complicated.”

“It’s about trust and honesty,” Mia told Stephen.  “Just like your sex is.  We choose our other partners thoughtfully.  They’re people we know and care about.  We each have an absolute veto, too.  It’s not promiscuous.  For a while, we were involved with Peter and Blossom, the couple from Boston you’ll meet.  And they, us.  But that doesn’t seem quite right anymore, somehow, even though we’re still friends.”

Stephen shook his head, not in judgment, but wonder.  “All strange to me.”

“Why strange?” Mia asked brightly.  “When you married, you didn’t give up other friends and family.  You didn’t expect Helen to satisfy all your needs for friendship and love – and she didn’t expect you to satisfy all her needs.  She still talks to her sisters on the phone.  You haven’t stopped going to Yankee games just because Helen is bored by baseball and goes shopping instead.  We don’t say we can have only one music, one food, one book, one home, one job for our whole lives.  Why do we demand, then, that one person satisfy all our sexual needs?”

“I don’t know,” Stephen admitted.  “Those things don’t seem as intimate, as personal to me.  I can’t explain it other than in old moral terms, which isn’t a justification but, a decree I guess.  I do know in my gut it’s the right thing, for me.”  Stephen’s scalp had grown damp with sweat under his ball cap, which he removed to scratch vigorously with the tips of his fingers.

“I think I should tell you now,” Mia said, frowning with hesitation for a moment, “that when I said we were involved with Peter and Blossom, I meant both Peter and Blossom.”

Stephen cocked his head, trying to understand what the difference in emphasis signified.  “You mean,” he began.  Stephen held up four fingers, which he crossed in various combinations.   Mia nodded.  “Oh,” Stephen said.

“You’re shocked.”

“Well, I didn’t know, rather,” Stephen said.  “I don’t think such things are shocking.  I have just thought of you and Lyle the whole time as, well, straight.  And adjusting that idea now is causing me trouble, I admit.  More with Lyle.”

“If it helps, Lyle and Peter have tried sleeping together just once.  They were very drunk and gave up after two minutes, entirely unsuccessful.  They wanted to rid themselves of the prejudice, the rotten old patrician taboo, so they said, but couldn’t.”

“That’s a relief,” Stephen said.

“And that prejudice runs deep, you see,” Mia said.  “You old bigot.”

“I’ll try to reform myself.  Every time I think I’ve drawn even with modern thought, somebody moves the mark on me.”  Stephen dropped his book into the bag and stood up.  “After all that news, and the sun, I think I need another swim.”

“I’ll join you.”  Mia stood up and stripped off her bikini bottom.  Stephen turned his head and saw that Mia’s pubic hair was shaved in a neat triangle of glossy black curls before he jerked his face away.  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Mia said.  “I forgot that would embarrass you more.  It just feels funny to me to swim with it.  It would be like you going into the ocean in slacks and a dress shirt.”

“I’ll be okay.”  Stephen tossed his shirt on the beach chair and started down the sand.  “Come along.”

Mia walked by his side.  “You going to leave those on?” she asked, referring to his swim trunks.

“Today I am.”

“It’s a shame.  The water feels better without them.”

Stephen didn’t answer.  She reached out and squeezed his hand, then let it go.  “Why does my body bother you?”

“Can’t you guess?” Stephen asked.

“Stephen,” Mia said, “you know me better than anyone else on this beach.  You know my thoughts and feelings as well as any other friend I have, as well as Lyle.  Maybe better because you listen better.  So why should seeing my body matter?”

“Because knowing your thoughts and feelings doesn’t make me want to sleep with you, Mia,” Stephen said with sudden exasperation.  “Helen and I don’t have the same arrangement you and Lyle have.  This is a dangerous game, at a bad time, you’re playing with me, Mia.  I wish you wouldn’t.”

“It’s not a game,” Mia told him quietly.  “I don’t want to hurt you or Helen.  But
I want to be honest.  I want to be who I am and be seen as that person, without apologizing or being afraid.  I don’t want to pretend I care for you less than I do because it might make something simpler.  And I’m not going to be afraid of our sexual instincts.  I’m not going to act as if we don’t have an attraction, but just because I acknowledge it doesn’t mean I’m going to seduce you.  We can talk to each other honestly, and understand each other.  We’ve always been able to do that.  Isn’t not being able to talk the problem you and Helen have?”

“Seems like it,” Stephen said.

“Then let’s not make it a problem you and I have, too.”

Stephen stopped, but Mia kept walking down the beach.  She turned to look at Stephen, and Stephen looked back, letting Mia see that he was studying her body.  Her breasts and hips were fuller, Lyle was right, she wasn’t skinny any more.  Her hair was long, wavy, and dark – as it had been in college – and her olive complexion didn’t burn as easily as Lyle’s pale skin.  Stephen looked at her face.  There he found her chocolate brown eyes, the elegant hump of her nose, her prominent chin, all as he remembered them, but her expression was different.  It was bolder and more open than it had been at school.  Mia’s face seemed to say that she was satisfied with the attention Stephen was paying her, and deserved to be seen as beautiful.  He understood that.  But Stephen couldn’t be the one to give her that attention.  He’d made his promises to Helen and he meant to keep them, regardless of what his heart cried after one day or the next.  The heart was an unreliable organ, a boat without a rudder, blown in any direction, or as often floundering in crosswinds and complicated seas.  Stephen didn’t trust his.  He certainly wasn’t going to listen to it.

“Come swimming with me, Stephen.”

“No, I think I’ll go back to the house.  I’ll take the umbrella and leave you the canoe.”


Stephen regretted not getting a chance to swim again before returning to Tania’s house.  He was hot even before he left the beach, and by the time he had carried the umbrella and his possessions back over the dunes and along the sandy trail, he was drenched in sweat and thirsty.  Stephen lay his burdens on the deck, got a long drink of water from the kitchen, then walked straight to the outdoor shower behind the house.  He took off his trunks and lay them across the waist-high wooden wall, and soaked himself thoroughly in the cold strong spray before adding warm water to the mix.  Stephen used the soap and shampoo he found on the shower’s long bench, dried himself with one of the towels stacked there, and returned to his room.  Helen was lying on the bed under the sheet.  She opened her eyes when Stephen walked in.

“Did I wake you?” he asked.

“No, I was just enjoying doing nothing.  Come join me.”  Helen turned down the sheet.  She was wearing black underwear with a matching bra.  Stephen dropped his towel on the floor and lay down.  They faced each other, with their heads propped on one hand.

“Will you enjoy yourself here?” Stephen asked Helen.

“Yes.  I already am,” she told him with a smile.  “It’s a beautiful spot.  I’m glad to see Lyle and Mia, and I think I’m going to like Tania, too.  I wish she weren’t so big breasted, though.”

“Why’s that?”

“Too much competition.”

“Yours are perfect, just right.”  Stephen leaned down to kiss her sternum.

“Tania’s gone to town, anyhow, to attend to some business at a gallery.  She asked if you would help with the grill for dinner, and I said of course you would.  You are the fire master, after all.  Lyle’s taken his bicycle for a ride.”

Helen reached down and took Stephen’s penis in her hand.  “Did you have fun with Mia?”

“Sure,” Stephen said, trying to sound off-hand.  “I read my book.  We chatted.  Mia went for a swim when I decided to come back here.”

“She looks great, doesn’t she?” Helen asked Stephen.  He looked carefully at Helen’s face, trying to decide if her question was a proxy for another she wanted to ask him or perhaps some kind of test or tease.  He saw nothing.  It was just conversation.


“She’s filled out, blossomed.”

“So you aren’t afraid of competition from Mia’s new breasts then?” Stephen asked.

“Mia is an old friend and perfectly safe!” Helen laughed.  “She’s always been sweet, of course, and I mean that as the highest compliment.  But there used to be something shy about her, tentative – as if she were apologizing for, I’m not sure what – and it’s not there now.  That’s what I meant by blossomed, by the way, you bonehead. I think it’s great.”

“I think I see what you mean, now that you point it out,” Stephen said.  His answer was evasive and distracted because his penis was rapidly stiffening in Helen’s hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, peering down.  “Didn’t you have enough this morning?”

“No,” Stephen said.

“Who was it that set you on?  Your stacked Tania?”

“That round, wrinkled old lady in the white canvas hat.”

“I don’t think so!”

“Just you, Helen,” Stephen told her, wanting the words to be true, wanting to make them true again, and make them true for good.  “Just you.”

“Well, that’s good, because we are one flesh, remember?  That’s what my father said when he married us, and he knows what he’s talking about most of the time.”

Stephen and Helen made love again.  Afterwards, they lay together.  Stephen dozed off and Helen held his body, listening to him breathe, and tingling with relief and happiness.  “He loves me, he loves me, he loves me,” Helen whispered, “and all is well again.”

It was only now, when it was obvious that she had been wrong, that Helen could admit to herself she had been worried.  She held Stephen more tightly, smiling, and then let him fall gently away.  Helen raised herself on one elbow to look at her husband.  “I thought you were falling out of love with me,” Helen told his sleeping face.  “You acted awkward and uncomfortable when you were around me.  You worked late.  You stopped making love to me,” she whispered, dipping close to smell his skin, “although you let me make love to you.  I was scared you would tell me I was right, so I stopped you from talking.  I know I was a coward to do this, but I couldn’t help myself.  But I know now you’ve forgiven me.  And I’ll love you harder to make it up.”

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The Great Gatsby, classic cover designJulie Bosman published an interesting article on the front page of the The New York Times yesterday about competing cover designs for two paperback editions of The Great Gatsby. (The article is here.)  The first is a re-issue of the classic Gatsby cover familiar to readers old enough to have read Fitzgerald’s masterpiece in high school or college. The second is the tie-in edition for the movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio and directed by that genius of brilliant excess — or hawker of wretched excess, take your pick — Baz Luhrmann.

Much of the article describes the different markets at which the two cover designs are targeted, and different sales strategies behind each. Readers already familiar with the novel are likely to choose the classic design, while readers just discovering the book are more likely to be attracted by the movie version.

Behind one of these strategies, however, are certain attitudes toward literature which I find — well, let me be gentle in my expressions here — contemptible. Allow me to explain:

How does the cover design of The Great Gatsby change the novel? (Hint: It doesn’t.)

The Great Gatsby, movie designAssuming that texts in today’s competing versions of The Great Gatsby are identical, how do the differing cover designs affect the experience of reading the novel?

The answer is they don’t. Just like reading Gatsby on a tablet rather than on paper doesn’t change the experience, as long as you think what is essential about a novel is reading the text. Is engaging the words on the page. Is entering into a conversation with the author as you read the book.

Now, the cover design can influence your expectations of a novel you haven’t read. And if those expectations are different than your reading experience, you may come to a different conclusion about the book than you might have otherwise. But all sorts of things influence our expectations of a book. Its status in the canon. The opinions of reviewers and friends. Advertising. Our mood and experiences. Our age.

But once you’ve read a book, how does anything other than having read it affect your expectations on re-reading it? Especially a novel like The Great Gatsby, which a lot of people have read. Or put another way…

If the cover design of The Great Gatsby doesn’t matter, why does anyone care?

Because people do care. Or at least we know for certain that one SoHo bookseller quoted in the article cares, because he says so. “It’s just God-awful,” he says, referring to the movie tie-in version. (I agree, by the way. It is pretty bad.)

But it doesn’t sound like this bookseller objects to the fact the cover design is ugly. Allow me to quote the article.

As to whether the new, DiCaprio-ed edition of “Gatsby” would be socially acceptable to carry around in public, [I’ve withheld  the name, you can find it in the article] offered a firm no. “I think it would bring shame,” he said, “to anyone trying to read that book on the subway.”

Shame. Really. Why?  Is it because the important thing about The Great Gatsby is not reading The Great Gatsby but being seen reading The Great Gatsbyespecially being seen reading an edition of The Great Gatsby which signifies that you aren’t some hick coming late to the art party?

I realize I’m speculating aggressively here, with a certain amount of snark, but it’s hard to think what else our bookseller friend might have meant.

Also, while I’m at it, why the hell would you care what strangers in a city of 8.3 million people think of you? Are you likely to ever see them again? What’s the point of trying to impress people you don’t know?

Also, while I’m at it, shouldn’t we be happy if a person decides to read The Great Gatsby because the movie-cover persuaded him to pick it up? Shouldn’t we hope more people will read the books we like? I would think the answer to these questions is “yes”.

Unless of course the point of great novels is not to read them or share them, but to use these books to create an exclusive club that allows us to feel special and look down on everyone else.

Allow me to be blunt. If I haven’t been already. People who use art to bolster their social status or personal vanity are philistines. They don’t care about art. For them, it’s just another accessory to flash, like a fancy watch or a cocktail  made with a certain brand of liquor.

And people who use art to exclude or denigrate others are the mortal enemies of art; enemies because the purpose of art is to connect and communicate, to inspire and delight, to comfort and challenge, to upset and exhaust, but always to leave us with a deeper experience of the life and consciousness and creation we share.

There is no connecting in an exclusive club, just arrogance and self-congratulation and rigid insularity and pettiness. These are pretty contemptible qualities.

I think I’ll pass on the opportunity to join and go get the new ugly Gatsby instead. I hear it’s available at Walmart.

Somewhat Related Content

Here’s a post on the aura of art that got started by a discussion in the comment section below.

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This American author is deadIn The New York Times this week, Scott Turow published an op-ed on publishing and eBooks titled “The Slow Death of the American Author”.

Following my habit, I won’t summarize the piece (since you can read Turow’s thoughts here). But I will throw out a few more-or-less random notes. Here we go.

Publishers Put the Screws to Authors on eBook Royalties

Turow says in the piece that publishers limit “e-book royalties to 25 percent of net receipts. That is roughly half of a traditional hardcover royalty.”

My first reaction to this is “huh?” because it sounds like Turow is saying that authors often get royalties of 50 percent of net receipts on hard covers. Unless publishers subtract their costs from this net before calculating the royalty, or unless Turow means the actual dollars paid are roughly double, this sounds very high and totally sweet.

Now, I have to admit I haven’t seen many book contracts in a while, and none of them for general fiction. So I’d be happy for information from someone with current experience in the industry. Also, if any publisher would like to provide a sample contract – perhaps with my name on it? – that would be okay-dokay too.

Anyhow, as for the complaint that publishers put the screws to authors, all I can say is, “What else is new? It’s a business. The point is to buy low, sell high, and sleep on a pile of money.” At least publishers are willing to pay authors something, even if the word “pittance” is germane. As opposed to these folks.

Pirating of E-Books Are a Threat to E-Books

This is a different problem and one about which I can’t be as flip. Many eBooks authors are finding the best way to combat getting screwed (or ignored) by publishers is to sell directly to the reader.

As you may know from my other posts, I am quite keen on this model, although I don’t think it is the utopian revolution described by some of its more enthusiastic boosters.

However, if e-Book piracy becomes as endemic as other forms of media piracy, then the model breaks down. And leads to this question: What reason will writers have to create good work?

Writers Should Write for the Love of Writing

Yeah, that sounds nice, and to a large – but not absolute – degree, it’s true. All good writing starts with enthusiasm and love, I agree.

But that doesn’t mean the only reward for writers should be personal satisfaction; and the folks who claim otherwise are either individuals eager to read books for free or companies that have business models which substantially depend on the enormous amount of free content on the web. (A big piece of the value electronic device manufacturers and internet service providers offer to their customers is access to free content. Pirate sites monetize their piracy by selling advertising, much of it through our giant friend on the internet, Google.)

Also, to paraphrase Turow, and to borrow from King Lear’s advice to Cordelia, writers who get nothing for their writing will eventually write … nothing. Or more accurately, writers will write less, and the quality of their writing will decline, if they can’t get paid for their work.

Those at most risk are the mid-list, middle-brow  authors. Successful genre writers are likely to always make enough money to keep writing about vampires or serial killers, particularly it they can sell rights to movie or television producers. Writers with real artistic talent will find a perch in a college or university that is happy to pay them hard cash for the prestige of their name and a light teaching load.

Everyone else? I hope they make a beautiful corpse.

Related Articles:

“Scott Turow and his Sinking Ship” (

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Evan Hughes has written an interesting piece on eBooks, the publishing industry, self-publishing, and the future of writers and readers for

I won’t summarize the article (since you can read it here) which nicely describes many trends reported elsewhere in the recent past; but I will make a few observations about points that particularly struck me. Here they are:

Successful Self-Published eBooks Are Serials Written in Pulp Genres

The writers who’ve had success self-publishing eBooks seem to work largely in traditional pulp genres like science fiction, crime, horror, romance, and erotica. These writers produce books in series, each of which creates an intense desire to read the next, just like one tasty potato chip makes you desperate to eat another. The digital format lets you satisfy that desire instantaneously and buy the next volume, from any place at any time.

As a bonus, you don’t have to figure out how to get rid of the damn thing once you’ve finished it. The pleasure in pulps is all about reading the next one, not re-reading the ones you already own, which tend to lie around the house and glare at you reproachfully for having paid $30.00 for the hard cover. Passionate fans are excepted from this problem.

All of which makes me feel better about my own lack of self-publishing success with Queen of the Nude since my mistake was not following this model. (I’m rationalizing because I’m feeling vulnerable today.)

I seem to have written erotica. Good! But I’ve actually written a commercial fiction / literary fiction hybrid. Bad! And it is not the first in a series. Bad! And I pretty much wrap everything up on the last page. Bad! I’m doomed. Okay, enough whining.

Only Writers Who Aren’t Yet Successful Need Publishers

Traditional publishers offer writers only two services of any real value today: some modest – but highly unreliable – assurance of quality and marketing muscle which they may or may not flex. (Big guaranteed advances also count as a service, if you can get one.)

These services are useful primarily to writers who might deserve an audience but don’t have one. Successful authors, self-published or otherwise, don’t need help building an audience, and these audiences generally don’t need an assurance of quality because they have already have a decent idea of what they will get.

This means, right now, traditional publishers only offer compelling value to those writers least likely to make them money. And these companies have got to be sweating blood at the thought of the moment when eBooks capture a great enough percentage of all book sales that writers like Stephen King decide they can make more coin without them.

Because when this happens – and I don’t usually pretend I can predict the future, but I think it is a when – the traditional publishing industry will need to find new ways to offer writers and readers value. Or cease to exist.

Books Still Need Paper Copies to Sell Books?

This is an intriguing assertion. According to Hughes, lots of data suggests that while people like to buy books online, they still like to discover these books in stores. So books published on paper and sold in bricks-and-mortar stores will always be essential to publishing.

I’m not sure this is true, however. People discover books many ways, particularly from friends, reviews, and social media as well as advertising.

I enjoy browsing in bookstores and buying books from them (one of the few forms of shopping I actually like), but I’m hard pressed to think of an occasion when I have ever bought a book I had wholly discovered in a store.

Like traditional publishers, bookstores are going to need more new ideas to survive. I don’t believe either is fated to go extinct. But I don’t see a solution to their problems, either.

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a clockwork orange anthony burgess reviewAnthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange succeeds purely on the strength of its narrator’s voice – but what a voice!

The novel’s story is told by 15-year-old Alex who lives in a vaguely dystopian, vaguely futuristic country that seems to be Britain.  Alex can check off every item under the DSM definition of sociopath. He bullies his parents and friends. He brutally assaults people at random. He gang-rapes a woman, rapes two young girls, and kills an old woman while trying to burglar her house. Alex regards this as all good youthful fun. When confronted by authorities, he knows how to pantomime innocence or remorse. When punished, he laments that no one cares or feels sorry for poor Alex.

All this promises to make Alex pretty ugly company, but sociopaths are often noted for their charm and wit, and Alex  has these in aplenty – not to mention exuberance, intelligence, formidable powers of observation, and a passionate love of classic music.

He also has the advantage of “nadsat,” the famous Russian-influence English slang Burgess invented for Alex, which puts the violence Alex commits at a remove from the reader and lends it a fantastical, almost fairy-tale quality.

Burgess described A Clockwork Orange as a “jeu d’esprit” that he wrote in three weeks, and it certainly feels like a book created in a burst of white-hot inspiration and imagination.

And it is a good thing, too. Because the “philosophical” parts of the novel, for which A Clockwork Orange is often complimented, strike me as (at best) heavy-handed and (at worst) laughably obvious.

So the philosophical meditation part of A Clockwork Orange goes like this.

First, Alex runs around assaulting, raping, and murdering. Then he is sent to prison where he is subjected to  behavior modification that physically incapacitates him any time he thinks about committing violence.  Then he un-behavior modifies himself by jumping out a window. Then he decides it’s time to grow up,  find a nice wife, and have a cute baby.

Get it?

In case you don’t,  Burgess sprinkles handy hints throughout the novel. So there is a book within a book, also titled “A Clockwork Orange,” from which Alex helpfully reads a summary passage on how you shouldn’t turn men into mindless machines. There is also the prison chaplain, just before Alex goes for his behavior modification therapy,  worrying out loud to the young man:

Does God want goodness or the choice of goodness? Is a man who chooses the bad perhaps in some way better than a man who has the good imposed upon him?

Burgess leaves us in no doubt of the answer to this question, and since he has created the world in which the question is asked, he gets to arrange his “facts” and “reality” to support his talking points. (Ayn Rand was a great one for doing that too.)

A Clockwork Orange is also noted for its satirical elements, and these were better than the philosophy, but not exactly revelatory. The police, politicians, Christianity, and what look like Communist intellectuals all get a good bracing spank and that was fine.

For me, one of the interesting things about reading A Clockwork Orange was how it compared and contrasted to Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock.

Greene’s novel features Pinkie, another murderous teenage British sociopath at the center of another “novel as meditation” – this time on the nature of sin and morality. Greene’s novel doesn’t deliver the same jolt of pure linguistic bliss as A Clockwork Orange, but it doesn’t bludgeon you with its themes either. It’s a close call, but I like Greene’s book a little better. I would fully recommend reading both, however.

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never let me go ishiguro rviewCan you appreciate a book without particularly liking it? That was my reaction to Kazuo Ishiguro’s 2005 speculative or experimental or science-fiction novel (read the review then pick your adjective), Never Let Me Go.

 Never Let Me Go focuses on three characters – Tommy, Ruth, and the novel’s narrator Kathy H. – who are students at what seems to be an upscale private school called Hailsham in what seems to be England in the 1980s.  But something isn’t quite right.

The disquiet begins with the first chapter in which an adult Kathy talks about her work as a “carer” for “donors”.  The story quickly returns to Kathy’s childhood at Hailsham where the students are only taught art, where the teachers are called “guardians”, and where not only are parents and the outside world never mentioned, but where they seem to barely exist.

As it turns out, there is a good reason for all these strange facts. The students of Hailsham are clones who are being raised to adulthood for the singular purpose of providing organ donations to “normal” men and women. The last donation is fatal.

And with that realization, we follow Ishiguro down his rabbit hole, and pop up in the world of Kafka or Beckett (as other reviewers have well noted before me); but unlike the fantastical worlds of Gregor Samsa’s middle-class family apartment, or Vladimir and Estragon’s desolate country road, the world of Never Let Me Go never quite achieves a coherent internal logic. Which means I don’t think the novel is an entirely successful experiment.

But before I get to these objections, let me talk about what I think Ishiguro did right.

The Flat Affect of Kathy H. Is Pitch Perfect. And Hard to Take

 Kathy H.’s narrative voice in Never Let Me Go is cool – even cold – dispassionate, and elusive. She leaves an enormous amount unsaid about the feelings and experiences of clone donors. They all seem to embrace their fate with a combination of resignation and acceptance. The four stages of donations are not described. Post-operative pain or complications are vaguely acknowledged, at best. Every donor dies off the page. No one knows where the bodies are buried. If they are buried.

Kathy H.  describes strong emotions, even in herself, with a matter-of-fact tone that prevents us from feeling them. She doesn’t seem to want our sympathy, and her coolness makes our empathy harder.

But all this seems exactly right. Asking someone to remain alive in feeling who has been bred and raised like cattle; who has helped the people she loves die in the service of a society that treats them as spare parts; and who herself is now facing the same death – all that is too much.

Kathy H. should be shut down as person. And if that makes our empathy harder, then it should be harder, because it is a catastrophic lack of empathy in Never Let Me Go that makes the genocidal slavery of the clones possible.

And I would go further and say since any injustice committed by one human against another has as its foundation a failure of empathy, then the novel pushes us to strengthen the quality which is the solution to its (fantastical) horrors.

Never Let Me Go: An Inadequate Portrait of Human Life

You might think after that statement I don’t have any serious criticisms of Never Let Me Go. But I do.

My first criticism is based on the indications that Ishiguro wants us to understand the experience of Kathy H. and Tommy and Ruth as universal. We know this explicitly from the February 2005 interview Ishiguro gave to The Guardian in which he said:

There are things I am more interested in than the clone thing. How are they trying to find their place in the world and make sense of their lives? To what extent can they transcend their fate? … Most of the things that concern them concern us all.

We also know it implicitly because it is not just Kathy H. who responds to her fate with resignation and acceptance. Every clone responds with resignation and acceptance. If there are variations from these two emotions in the world of Never Let Me Go, we have no report of them.

This is a barren and withered portrait of human life; and while it is an accurate description of some human lives, it is entirely inadequate representation of the human race I know.

That race, too, strives with might and contends with blood. That race, too, loves with a fierceness that will break before it quits. That race, too, rejoices and despairs. That race, too, knows beauty as well as horror. That race, too, seethes for justice in the face of injustice. That race, too, believes beyond all reason, beyond the heavy evidence of experience. That race, too, endures and endures.

Where are these lives too in Never Let Me Go?

Clone Organ Donors: Extraneous and Finally, a Distraction

My other problem with Never Let Me Go is that I think it was a mistake for Ishiguro to situate his science-fiction nightmare in what otherwise appears to be England in the middle-late 20th century.

It would have been fine if Ishiguro had transformed the premise into something more familiar: say a children’s cancer ward in which Kathy H. could have been an orphan and ward of the state, the other characters had dysfunctional families, and so on. Then Ishiguro could still have explored the things in which he says he was most interested without all the fussing with clones.

Or he could have set Never Let Me Go in some dystopian alternate Earth-like world sometime in the past or future, in which it would be easy to accept the clones because that’s what happened in this world. (Think of Panem in The Hunger Games.) That would also have been fine and easy to do.

But as it is in Never Let Me Go, I kept stopping and saying to myself: “Wait, exactly how does this clone-donor society thing work again?”

How did England, barely ten years after the defeat of Nazi Germany, the exposure of the death camps, and the end of the Nurenberg Trials, transform itself from a reasonable progressive Western society – as these things go – into a moral monster? Did the rest of the Allied powers acquiesce or participate? How did England get the entire medical profession to ignore the Hippocratic Oath? Where there no objections from the religious communities? Did anyone object? Who was making money from this? Was there an underground railroad for clones? What was the system of control? As young adults, the clones seem to be able to roam at will. What stopped them from disappearing into society, where they would be indistinguishable from other human beings? Why didn’t the clones go all Rambo on the murderous bastards running the system? As an American, I can name entire states – hello, Texas – that would rise up in violent defense of themselves. How did science perfect cloning months after the discovery of the DNA double helix, but still need another 30 years to invent the Walkman?

Also, I’m not a big fan of the novel of social comment, but the premise clearly suggests that our societies are capable of such actions, but doesn’t go any further with the suggestion.  This combination of provocative and perfunctory doesn’t sit well.

Should You Read Never Let Me Go?

Never Let Me Go is two books in many ways. As the story of three people dealing with horrors not at all dissimilar from real ones in the world today, I thought it was pretty good. As a speculative science-fiction novel, it would have needed to speculate much harder and much more thoroughly to be a success

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brief wondrous life oscar wao junot diaz reviewWhen artists are really good, I tend to curse at them. G-dd-mn Jane Austen. G-dd-mn Beethoven. G-dd-amn Billy Wilder. Now I’ve got a new name on my curse list. G-dd-mn Junot Diaz.

The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao principally concerns its title character, his sister Lola, and their mother, although it does also tell the story of their extended family as well as that of its ostensible narrator, Yunior.

Diaz’ novel is that rare find – a work of current fiction that entirely lives up to its hype. The number of successful elements it delivers is simply ridiculous:

Big vivid characters that make a big splash on the page? Check.

Big vivid characters that are also richly imagined, convincing, and affecting? Check.

Multi-generational saga? Check.

Lots of sex but no sex scenes (thank you Junot!)? Check.

Healthy dollops of magical realism? Check.

Locations exotic to the typical American reader of literary fiction: hard scrabble New Jersey and the Dominican Republic? Check.

A narrative voice that is part gangster, part geek, and part grad student? Check.

A whole bunch of fanboy references to comic books, science fiction, and fantasy novels (oh god not again)? Check.

A great deal of untranslated Spanish dialogue, narration, and commentary? Check.

A third-world history lesson — in this case about the hyper-over-super-achieving sadistic Dominican dictator Trujillo and his thirty year reign of terror — much of which is told through jazzy footnotes? Check.

A story focused on the wild, uncompromising, irrational, destructive but all the same soul-sustaining power of love? Check.

A satisfying ending that unites all these elements in an organic whole that meets Nabokov’s definition of art, “beauty plus pity”? Check and check.

G-dd-mn Junot Diaz.

The only criticism of the novel I have is a flaw in the narrator which, as it turns out, isn’t a flaw at all. In the beginning of The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Yunior pushes the comic book/sci-fi/fantasy references so hard that they almost entirely obscure the character of Oscar.

I kept muttering, “I can’t see Oscar, Junot, because all these Lord of the Rings references keep getting in the way.”

But what I realized is that early in the novel, Yunior is a young man who writes like a young man: overly earnest, full of himself, self-absorbed, and inept. He matures as he ages, and his narration matures too, until it is much wiser, more self-aware, more observant and empathetic, and more rueful.

Yunior is also one of those (not uncommon) characters who are their author’s alter ego, to the extent that they often share their creator’s omniscience. Yunior describes many things in the novel which are simply impossible for him to know.

Diaz doesn’t give Yunior the excuse of being the fictional author of the novel. Instead, Diaz shimmers in and out of Yunior’s character, which I think gives the novel more depth, because Diaz keeps getting you to fall into the dream of the story, then waking you up from it.

That’s another element I should have put in my list. Well, I’ll check it off now and conclude with this: G-dd-mn Junot Diaz.

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