There is a certain type of modern, usually American, writer that I do not really like, whose work is pared down, its beautiful elements plucked until the story is merely a skeleton of what it could be and the writer comes off less like a storyteller and more like a performance artist. I think of writers like Catherine Lacey, Amelia Gray and Lindsay Hunter who are guilty of this (mainly in their short fiction): a sort of Frankenstein’s monster of George Saunders and whatever their genre of choice is. But, after being mean, I can say that there can be merit in stories like these done the right way, and at the forefront of this aforementioned quality is American author Jesse Ball, whose most recent novel, Census, offers a menacing yet tender entry into this mumblecore genre of post modern fiction. Reminding me a lot of the work of Blake Butler, although not nearly as acidic, violent or nihilistic, this tale of the love between a father and son feels immediate, heartfelt and shot through with the pain of impending lose. It focuses on an unnamed widower who gets news that he is about to die. His main concern though is for his grown son who has Down’s syndrome and will be left alone in a cruel world once he is gone. The narrator decides to take a job for shadowy government agency to travel “up north” through towns denoted only by letter to give people a mark: a little symbol tattooed just below the ribs. What follows is a strange journey through these little towns and through the narrator’s memory. We see what the two have to deal with in their mysterious quest, from those who offer bits of comfort to those who offer a healthy yet hurtful distrust. We also learn of the narrator’s life with his wife, a kind of performance artist/clown and whose full story is only revealed near the book’s heartfelt and emotional climax. This is a strange story, but a powerful one that makes me rethink some of my harsher literary opinions.
Rating: 4/5
No comments:
Post a Comment