More Almond delight...

In an earlier entry, praising Steve Almond for taking a moral stand about Condoleeza Rice speaking at BC's graduation ceremony, I also mentioned his new book and said I'd say a little more about it once I finished reading it. Well, I finished awhile ago, and just haven't had the time to remark, but here's what I think...

Julianna Baggott co-wrote "Which Brings Me to You" with Steve. Both are accomplished writers with other books to their credit and lots of devotees, of which I'm one. In this current duet of a novel, Julianna's writing is good--real good. But for a decent chunk of the book, it's kind of self-conscious. You can tell she's trying. I don't know if this was intentional or not, but if you think about it, it works. The story is that of two people getting to know each other through (often the subtext of their) letters. As Julianna went along, she became more and more herself and less the person she was trying to convey. Since she and Steve hadn't ever written together before, perhaps this was them getting to know each other, as well.

Steve, on the other hand, is so natural in his writing, that it feels as if you're in his head, listening to his thoughts, or living his memories right along side him. He gives more in his exchanges, and does it without asking for anything back or trying to make a certain impression. Sometimes Julianna seemed to be trying to evoke a response or seek approval...or disapproval. Steve just told the story simply, honestly, lushly.

Here are a couple examples:
Julianna/Jane wrote...

"So now the difficult part. I'm supposed to be mantling things here. (Why only dismantle? Why not mantle every once in awhile?)

"I'm afraid that there are endless versions of my self--one broke Michael Hanrahan's heart and let him go racing off on a wet night into a telephone pole, one deserted Elton Birch becuase she wanted to survive, one was a sweet, innocent housemaid in Paris, and one punched Pascal in the mouth in a bus station. I am afraid that I'm like my mother, and I feel sorry for my father, who fell in love with a debate team champ, a debutante, and that's not who she turned out to be at all. I'm afraid that someone will fall in love with one version of me, but that version will shift and change until a new me emerges, maybe wholly from an old wound. It's a confession. It's a warning.

"I broke a finger when I punched Pascal in the face. It hurt like hell. It turned fat and blue. I didn't go to the doctor. I didn't get i it X-rayed. I just let it pain me until eventually one day it didn't pain me anymore. It healed crookedly, and so now when I try to point out a direction straight ahead, my finger is veering off center to some unintended locale."

To which Steve/John replies...

"Dear Sonny Liston,

I am going to restrain myself, just barely, from making any cracks about your French maid outfit. You're raising a serious concern and all I can say, really, is that the past is always too much. That's what makes the past such a tough customer. One minute you're waltzing down memory lane, the next you're beseiged by what could have been. Pascal doesn't sound like a guy who would have survived your twenties. But who knows? And, at any rate, the possibility of Pascal persists. He remains dreamy and tender, bathed in milk and bleeding from the mouth. (Note to self: Jane punches. Hard.)"

Or in a later letter, Steve/John wrote:
"So, for instance, last time around, when you wrote, He had practiced skill, but those don't impress me, I scribbled in the margins: Oh, thank God! And when you wrote, I don't have to tell you what it's like ot have sex with a woman, I wrote back, Well then, I'm not going to tell you what it's like to have sex with a man. And when you asked whether we were actually sharing some kind of epistolary confessional booth, I slipped into a pair of lacey black underthings and--wait a second, scratch that. What I did was jot down a joke my dad once told me which goes like this:
Old Jewish man slips into a confessional booth and says the the young priest, "Father! Father! I'm ninety-six years old and I just made love to a girl who's twenty!"
"But sir," the priest says, "this is a Cahtolic church. Why are you telling me this?"
"What do you mean? I'm telling everyone!"

"I could go on, but counterpunching only gets you so far. I've got business to take care of, more splendid ruin to unspool.

"Let me say, though, before we duck back into the confessional--Say, what are you wearing over there? Am I the only one in this booth wearing sexy underwear?--that I don't blame you for getting into it with the Paglias. not one little dirty-girl bit. If I put myself in your shoes (what size are you again?) It feels like a no-brainer. Those Paglias, they were full of love, sexy and sure of themselves, destructive, sure, but in a way that offered an expansion of your world. That's what you seem to be after."

Anyway, that's just a tiny bit from the book. It's so rich in foibles, so funny and sad, so unabashedly human in its regret and longing. It is a truly wonderful read, for both women and men.

By the way, do you know that according to research, men read very little fiction?

Anyway, it's a great summer read, a great couples read (those are rare) and a great read for anyone trying to learn how to write. You won't find two young authors more worthy of both your enjoyment and your close observation. These two know their stuff. Head out to your favorite independent bookstore today, the start of a long, lazy weekend, and get yourself a copy of Which Brings Me to You.

That's all for now. Off to camp in New Hampshire and start reading Louis Bayard's The Pale Blue Eye. Anyone read it yet?

~Fischlipps