You can't say that you weren't warned about what you were getting yourself into here:
"Too wistful. Too poignant. These walk-around-town-books, these day-in-the-life stories. I know writers love them. But I think it's hard to feel bad for this Swift fellow of yours. I mean, he has the best life of anyone I know."
In fact, one of the things I liked best about this enjoyable novel is the way that Greer inoculates himself against the Usual Suspects of one-star criticism, like the class clown who has learned to get in there with the mean jokes and self-putdowns before the class bullies can gather their wits about them. Central character unlikable? Tell me about it. Spoiled, entitled, living in a precious little bubble of his own creation? Yes, yes and yes. "... tedious, self-centered, pitiable, laughable ..."? Now, steady on. But yes. Nothing happens? At least twice. Greer has even managed to steel himself against snarky comments about his deservedness or otherwise of winning the Pulitzer (remember, its PULL-it-sir), reminding us that "... prizes aren't love ... The slots of winners are already set ... and if you happen to fit the slot, then bully for you."
In case you hadn't guessed, I enjoyed this very much. I'm unsure myself about its worthiness of a Pulitzer -- but then, I ask myself, what is a prize like the Pulitzer for? Is it enough to have a clever, literate novel, with some beautifully turned phrases and some good jokes? (Sorry, I loved the mangled German. Sue me.) A novel that is a good read, but at the same time has some interesting things to say about changes in attitudes over the thirty or so years of Arthur Less' adulthood: changes to relationships, to aging, to success, even to our place in the world, as "... middle-aged American[s] walking around with ... middle-aged American sorrows ..."; changes that, we acknowledge, but we haven't quite gotten used to, and that perhaps we really need to talk about. Less deserving efforts have won prizes and no one said a thing.
"Too wistful. Too poignant. These walk-around-town-books, these day-in-the-life stories. I know writers love them. But I think it's hard to feel bad for this Swift fellow of yours. I mean, he has the best life of anyone I know."
In fact, one of the things I liked best about this enjoyable novel is the way that Greer inoculates himself against the Usual Suspects of one-star criticism, like the class clown who has learned to get in there with the mean jokes and self-putdowns before the class bullies can gather their wits about them. Central character unlikable? Tell me about it. Spoiled, entitled, living in a precious little bubble of his own creation? Yes, yes and yes. "... tedious, self-centered, pitiable, laughable ..."? Now, steady on. But yes. Nothing happens? At least twice. Greer has even managed to steel himself against snarky comments about his deservedness or otherwise of winning the Pulitzer (remember, its PULL-it-sir), reminding us that "... prizes aren't love ... The slots of winners are already set ... and if you happen to fit the slot, then bully for you."
In case you hadn't guessed, I enjoyed this very much. I'm unsure myself about its worthiness of a Pulitzer -- but then, I ask myself, what is a prize like the Pulitzer for? Is it enough to have a clever, literate novel, with some beautifully turned phrases and some good jokes? (Sorry, I loved the mangled German. Sue me.) A novel that is a good read, but at the same time has some interesting things to say about changes in attitudes over the thirty or so years of Arthur Less' adulthood: changes to relationships, to aging, to success, even to our place in the world, as "... middle-aged American[s] walking around with ... middle-aged American sorrows ..."; changes that, we acknowledge, but we haven't quite gotten used to, and that perhaps we really need to talk about. Less deserving efforts have won prizes and no one said a thing.
