The Moon in Its Flight, by Gilbert Sorrentino

The Moon in Its Flight
Gilbert Sorrentino

I don’t know what I was thinking when I purchased this book, because I apparently had no clue about who Gilbert Sorrentino is. Based on his name (and, I suppose, a review of his that I must have only half-read), I pictured him writing in his Italian vineyard, sipping wine and penning another line. I pictured a contemporary of Italo Calvino, and I assumed that his writing would be of the same nature. While this is not entirely true, I was at least pleasantly surprised. Sorrentino is Italian, it seems, but he’s a tough New Yorker, and his stories have none of the Old World in them; rather, they are all American.

The Moon in Its Flight is a collection of 20 stories which have been written from 1971 until just two years ago. I can’t say that every story brought me an intense level of enjoyment, but I did like most of his stories. They are filled with recurring people and situations, and I can’t help but think that Sorrentino is dealing with past friends and mistakes here. For example, in several stories, the lead character (a man who thinks he has talent enough to make him a writer, even though all he writes are small scraps of garbage) has an affair with a friend’s wife. Sometimes the repetition of this storyline became a bit trite, especially as names are repeated also (making it seem all the more likely that these people were real to him).

Also important is Sorrentino’s style; he has a way of directly addressing the audience about his writing, which I found refreshing. For example, in “Decades,” the first time we meet Clara (one such name that he will use in other stories), the woman with whom the narrator has an affair, he writes:

When I say it was interesting, I mean that I saw that Ben was not that romantic Byronesque figure I had taken him to be. He somehow had a goal, a—what shall I call it?—“stake in life.” On the other hand, I am more or less still searching for myself, if you can stomach that phrase. Well, let that be; this is the Steins’ story.

This technique does not become clichéd or overused; in fact, it was what I enjoyed most about his work. It is used to the strongest effect in his final story (also his most recent), “Things that Have Stopped Moving.” In it, the narrator admits that he is going to try and relate something personal that he has never been able to write about before; he hopes this time he will be successful. Again we are given a story about a struggling writer and a friend’s wife. However, this time, certain lines and phrases really struck me; this story also illustrates Sorrentino’s growth as a writer (the story I’ve quoted above appeared in 1977). Consider the final paragraph of the story, when the narrator explains,

In any event, I’ve spent a fair amount of time and attempted a degree of care in the creation and arrangement of these fragments. There are moments or flashes when I believe that I have seen myself, in a quirk of syntax, as I really was, when I can swear that Ben or Clara are wholly if fleetingly present in these simulacra of the past. Moments, flashes, when this admittedly inadequate series of signs seems to body forth a gone time. But I know that this is nonsense, nothing but a ruse with which I have been faithfully complicit so as to make the landscape of my life seem more valuable and interesting than it ever was.

Sorrentino raises some interesting points here. How well can any “truth” (consider the Frey ordeal) translate into prose, even when one is striving to render it faithfully? This is a fitting way to end a collection of stories that seems, at any rate, extremely autobiographical—although how much does one know about Sorrentino after reading these stories? I can’t say much, although I suppose I know he isn’t writing while sipping a glass of red wine and staring down on his Italian vineyard. Or, maybe he is. Maybe he just chose not to include that in his stories.

In a nutshell: These stories did not shake the ground I walk on, but they were enjoyable to read. I recommend them.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4.5 out of 6

Blindness, by Jose Saramago

Blindness
Jose Saramago

What a disturbing, beautiful, mesmerizing book.

As I have mentioned earlier, I am trying to acquaint myself with more recent Nobel laureates (See The Tin Drum), so I took on Saramago’s Blindness. A reader leaves this book forever changed, and while I loathe using such a hackneyed phrase, it is nevertheless true here.

The book centers on an anonymous city; the characters are of no nationality, and it is this universality which adds to the terror of the tale. This is the story of everyone.

At the beginning of the novel, a man sitting in his car waiting for a traffic light to change is suddenly struck blind with a “white blindness.” The doctor can find no cause for his blindness. Soon, others are struck, and panic spreads. Not knowing the cause of the disease or how it is spread, frightened officials corral all of the blind into an abandoned mental asylum. If they try to escape, they will be shot. The terror has begun. Soon their limited space is overcrowded, and opportunists try to take advantage of the situation. It seems even the blind can be driven to the most brutal acts of desperation; eyes are not required. Interestingly, one “blind” woman can see—the wife of the first man struck blind pretends to have lost her sight so she can remain with her husband. Unfortunately, her sight forces her to witness some of the most disturbing acts I have read in fiction.

Saramago’s style is also disturbing. Interestingly enough, I enjoyed his style even though I hate similar devices in other authors. There are no paragraphs in Blindness; rather, it is just one, long, block of text. Punctuation is also limited, including quotation marks. You might think this makes reading difficult, but it doesn’t.

While this tale is horrifying on its own (after awhile, the illness spreads so that it is impossible to contain; people have gone blind while just walking in the streets and are trapped, unable to find home. It becomes a world where every man must fight for himself, and kindness is rare), Saramago is too good of an author to simply present a creepy story without deeper implications. Instead, this story is more, and its themes are important to anyone who strives to be more than just human.  

In a nutshell: read it read it read it.

Bibliolatry Scale: 6 out of 6. Perfection.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
Carson McCullers

I’ve finally read The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. (See, I have forbidden myself to purchase any new books until I finish all the unread books I own first. For some reason, this is one that I’d avoided reading. I think because it was an Oprah’s Book Club pick, and not that I have anything particularly against her, but I had wanted to read that book BEFORE she picked it, but I didn't have a chance to, and then I guess I didn’t want to seem as if I was reading it because of her. Not that anyone would know. Or care. Ok, I’m weird. HOWEVER, I did read The Corrections because Franzen refused the book club. Interesting. Not really.)

Anyway, I am pleasantly surprised by this book. I loved it. Admittedly, I felt there were a few minor flaws, but they were ones I can overlook, especially considering everything else this book has to offer.

First, I have to say that this book passed my “opening hook” test. If you don’t know, I often feel a book is “bad” simply because its opening pages don’t hook me immediately. There have been many books which I label as excellent even though they fail this test. However, for a book to truly be perfect, I have to be hooked immediately—preferably by the first page, although I’ll allow the first ten as acceptable here.

This book hooked me on the first page with its simple telling of two mutes. The story of these two characters was not so remarkable; rather, it was the way in which she presented the story. If you’ve read Marquez, you know what I mean: it’s the way an author can relate even mundane events in such a way as to make them poetry.

Another thing I really enjoyed was its characters. It isn’t exactly a revelation to say that if one can sympathize with the characters, it’s highly likely that you’ll like the book. In this book, I honestly loved the characters, especially little Mick, who is, I guess, the main character. She’s young, she’s confused, she loves Beethoven—what’s not to love? (I’m obsessed with Beethoven, by the way. I just bought a huge, stone bust of him on eBay. Seriously. Who does that?)

The only thing that bothered me a little bit about the book was that some of the motifs and symbolism were a little heavy-handed, but it also added to the overall irony, I suppose. For example, it’s not giving anything away to say that the book has many “lonely hunters,” who are, in fact, hunting for the same thing, and they are all in the same town and so close to one another and if only they could connect they might find some peace BUT THEY JUST CAN’T. So that was a bit frustrating, and I suppose that’s why some things are heavy-handed, to emphasize the fact that these people are so alike and yet so isolated from one another. But then again maybe I’d have gotten that with a little more subtlety.

In a nutshell: a wonderful book. A fairly easy read, but a literary one that will give you lots to mull over.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars