Uniquely divisive book.

I had heard that Jonathan Franzen was a darling of the New York critics. I didn't listen to this until now, 2018, partly because I have trouble generically listening to heavy tomes, and I also am skeptical of the stuff that the New York establishment is selling so hard. Nonetheless, Franzen and George are a marvelous twosome. The humor in the book is astonishing. Franzen's writing skills are captivating. I keep wanting to remember particular sentences and phrases, how sharply funny his descriptions are, and how George is able to turn the material into some of the funniest stuff I have ever read. I know that some readers will violently disagree with me. Nonetheless, I feel that the characters in the book are so acutely drawn, so deeply understood and explained: I can't think of another book that comes close to this. I laughed continuously at the "Axxon Corporation" road show, and at Gary's rage at his father for accepting a mere $5000 from them for his idea, an idea that is so complicated that I couldn't begin to decipher the techno-chemical-brain transmission jargon being paraded before me. And, Gary's incredibly poignant slip into depression when he has this completely lovely wife: so terrible and yet so brilliantly communicated. And the one son who has become so unbelievably spoiled that his parents are actually afraid of him! Frankenstein lives!

The portrait of New York City and the adventures of Chip, the man who is sliding down the academic slope so far that he winds up going to Lithuania with some criminal/politician: once again just amazing. The scene in which Chip runs away from his apartment where Enid, Alfred and Denise have all come to have lunch with him, solely to chase his cute little sex object and to try to rescue the nightmarishly bad manuscript that he has written: I was stunned. You can have Philip Roth, or John Cheever, or even Richard Russo, whom I love. Franzen is a true prodigy. I remember how funny it was when Portnoy made love to his family's dinner. It seems quaint now. When Gary slobbers all over himself fantasizing about his own wife, and is repulsed by the women who like him and approach him at work: his tension is truly palpable. I am reluctant to use the word genius, and I imagine that it will alienate the disapprovers in the crowd, but this is talent unlike other authors, even the ones who inspire awe and deep admiration in me. Tom Perry is one of these, a man who has effectively invented his own genre, who has compelled us to identify with and root for a man who is a cold, hired killer. I am not comparing these two men, but I am thrilled to live in a time when we can enjoy such gifts as these.

I cautiously recommend this book to you. You may well hate it. If you give it a chance, though, it will reward you with love and pathos and writing so funny that you will laugh, if not out loud, then quietly, with sharp appreciation.









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