Dear readers, I ditched the pacifier long ago but still indulge in certain comforts. Preparing to spend some time recently in terra incognita — California — I knew to arm myself with backup: at least one novel that is irrepressibly of New York City, with a voice as clear and distinctive as our municipal water. Even when I don’t need to be soothed, highly idiomatic narrators are my Achilles’ heel. What’s better than finding somebody who can thread together language in an altogether new way? The books I discuss today fit the bill, and deserve to be more widely known. Both authors are also named Ann, weirdly, but let’s keep alive the magic of coincidence, shall we? —Joumana “Passages,” by Ann QuinFiction, 1969
Fair is fair, so I have to admit I discovered this author because of California. Do you ever walk into a bookstore, peruse the shelves and wonder, “Um, who’s in charge here?” I had that experience (in a good way) at Small World Books in Venice Beach, which is basically an id emporium — or maybe I just mean that they had a copy of every book by the experimental British novelist Ann Quin. Quin’s work has been described as “squelching and sordid,” and while it does indeed feature a good deal of sex her preoccupations rove across all kinds of interior terrain. Her debut novel, “Berg,” contains one of the great first lines in 20th-century fiction: “A man called Berg, who changed his name to Greb, came to a seaside town intending to kill his father.” “Passages,” too,” has a beguiling opening. “Not that I’ve dismissed the possibility my brother is dead.” Each time it strikes me as fragmentary and otherworldly, as if appearing from a conversation I didn’t know I was having. Over the course of the book, the narrator and her lover search for her missing brother in unnamed territory. The circumstances of his disappearance remain murky; the narrative action comes from the increasingly porous and unstable boundary between the central character, her companion and her surroundings. The gait of the novel is decidedly off-kilter, which adds to its pleasures. I recommend reading it in one sitting, if you can, along with Claire-Louise Bennett’s recent stellar introduction. Read if you like: Nathalie Sarraute; the charms of Brighton, England. “If You’re a Girl,” by Ann RowerFiction, 1990
This was my mouthy, New Yorky respite in California, a welcome counter to the wall-to-wall bliss that always feels vaguely threatening. Rower was 53 when this collection was first published, and had acquired all manner of life experience. (Think babysitting for Timothy Leary’s kids, collaborating with Francis Ford Coppola, dancing with Martha Graham.) Her fiction captured the anarchic, bohemian aesthetic pacing around New York at the time. In this book she tackles post-stroke aphasia, the stomach-dropping sensation of a momentous phone call, the apprehension of establishment Buddhists about LSD. (Alan Watts makes a cameo.) Rower’s fearless comic sensibility sets up plenty of zingers. On one character’s archnemesis: “Nick looked like the only reason he left the Latin American country he came from was because they wouldn’t let him be dictator.” Another woman’s unhappiness with marriage is captured in a terribly succinct image: “The next thing I knew I was wallpapering the inside of the closet on diet pills, and waking up on a bed of broken glass — wedding presents.” The publisher Semiotexte recently released an updated version that includes some new stories: heartening news, since Rower had been creatively blocked for 20 years after the death of her partner. I appreciate that even in her 80s, she had the good sense to leave the title — its girlhood — unchanged. Read if you like: “After Claude,” by Iris Owens; correcting tourists’ pronunciation of “Houston Street.” We hope you’ve enjoyed this newsletter, which is made possible through subscriber support. Subscribe to The New York Times. Friendly reminder: Check your local library for books! Many libraries allow you to reserve copies online. Like this email? Sign-up here or forward it to your friends. Have a suggestion or two on how we can improve it? Let us know at books@nytimes.com. Plunge further into books at The New York Times or our reading recommendations.
|
