How much is fiction? How much is memoir? Who cares: It’s joyous.
Autofictional tales about the author’s Kentucky childhood, friendship with Ken Kesey, and relationship with his memories.
In “A Work of Genius,” the opening piece in this shaggy but moving collection, McClanahan (I Just Hitched in From the Coast, 2011, etc.) tells the story of the day, in 1947, when an aging bicycle performer named Kramer visited Brooksville, Kentucky, and more or less wowed the pants off young McClanahan (then age 14) with his “uncanny kinetic miracles of equilibrium and grace and strength.” In the seven intervening decades, McClanahan then says, he “recounted Kramer’s wondrous exploits times beyond number, to family, friends, and all manner of other captive audiences,” and, “over the course of all those tellings and re-tellings, the story took on something of a life of its own…and gathered unto itself certain adjustments, embellishments, flourishes, and adornments, to the point that eventually I wasn’t quite sure I still recognized it myself.” McClanahan’s project here, though—in both “A Work of Genius” and, the reader must assume, the tales that follow—is to shed these “fanciful trappings” and, using a mixture of “quasi-reliable details” and limited creative license, fix some core version of his story “permanently…in writing.” Disclaimer aside, McClanahan then lures the reader—with his trademark jocularity and bountiful prose—through the wistful banalities of a midcentury, middle-American boyhood. His anecdotes wind together, flowing almost associatively, and cover topics such as his infatuation with cigarettes; his fraught relationship with his entrepreneur father (“we were a well-oiled perpetual animosity machine"); a mismatched freshman year at a “Southern Gentleman’s college,” here called “Eustace J. Spoonbred University”; his friendship with Ken Kesey; and his lifelong appreciation for the Cincinnati Reds. If a couple of McClanahan’s stories seem fundamentally inessential—case in point: “Me and Gurney Goes Out on the Town,” in which the author recalls seeing (or says he does) a go-go dancer violently eject a verbally abusive patron from a seedy bar—the book, taken as a whole, performs a genuinely beautiful act of post hoc portraiture, eventually building into a protracted study of McClanahan's relationship with the erosive nature of time and the happy-sad miracles of memory.<
How much is fiction? How much is memoir? Who cares: It’s joyous.Pub Date: Feb. 18, 2020
ISBN: 978-1-64009-260-0
Page Count: 192
Publisher: Counterpoint
Review Posted Online: Nov. 24, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Dec. 15, 2019
BOOK REVIEW
Inspired by disclosures of a real-life Florida reform school’s long-standing corruption and abusive practices, Whitehead’s...
The acclaimed author of The Underground Railroad (2016) follows up with a leaner, meaner saga of Deep South captivity set in the mid-20th century and fraught with horrors more chilling for being based on true-life atrocities.
Elwood Curtis is a law-abiding, teenage paragon of rectitude, an avid reader of encyclopedias and after-school worker diligently overcoming hardships that come from being abandoned by his parents and growing up black and poor in segregated Tallahassee, Florida. It’s the early 1960s, and Elwood can feel changes coming every time he listens to an LP of his hero Martin Luther King Jr. sermonizing about breaking down racial barriers. But while hitchhiking to his first day of classes at a nearby black college, Elwood accepts a ride in what turns out to be a stolen car and is sentenced to the Nickel Academy, a juvenile reformatory that looks somewhat like the campus he’d almost attended but turns out to be a monstrously racist institution whose students, white and black alike, are brutally beaten, sexually abused, and used by the school’s two-faced officials to steal food and supplies. At first, Elwood thinks he can work his way past the arbitrary punishments and sadistic treatment (“I am stuck here, but I’ll make the best of it…and I’ll make it brief”). He befriends another black inmate, a street-wise kid he knows only as Turner, who has a different take on withstanding Nickel: “The key to in here is the same as surviving out there—you got to see how people act, and then you got to figure out how to get around them like an obstacle course.” And if you defy them, Turner warns, you’ll get taken “out back” and are never seen or heard from again. Both Elwood’s idealism and Turner’s cynicism entwine into an alliance that compels drastic action—and a shared destiny. There's something a tad more melodramatic in this book's conception (and resolution) than one expects from Whitehead, giving it a drugstore-paperback glossiness that enhances its blunt-edged impact.
Inspired by disclosures of a real-life Florida reform school’s long-standing corruption and abusive practices, Whitehead’s novel displays its author’s facility with violent imagery and his skill at weaving narrative strands into an ingenious if disquieting whole.Pub Date: July 16, 2019
ISBN: 978-0-385-53707-0
Page Count: 224
Publisher: Doubleday
Review Posted Online: Jan. 20, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2019
PERSPECTIVES
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
A novel of horrific beauty, where death is the only truth.
Even within the author’s extraordinary body of work, this stands as a radical achievement, a novel that demands to be read and reread.
McCarthy (No Country for Old Men, 2005, etc.) pushes his thematic obsessions to their extremes in a parable that reads like Night of the Living Dead as rewritten by Samuel Beckett. Where much of McCarthy’s fiction has been set in the recent past of the South and West, here he conjures a nightmare of an indeterminate future. A great fire has left the country covered in layers of ash and littered with incinerated corpses. Foraging through the wasteland are a father and son, neither named (though the son calls the father “Papa”). The father dimly remembers the world as it was and occasionally dreams of it. The son was born on the cusp of whatever has happened—apocalypse? holocaust?—and has never known anything else. His mother committed suicide rather than face the unspeakable horror. As they scavenge for survival, they consider themselves the “good guys,” carriers of the fire, while most of the few remaining survivors are “bad guys,” cannibals who eat babies. In order to live, they must keep moving amid this shadowy landscape, in which ashes have all but obliterated the sun. In their encounters along their pilgrimage to the coast, where things might not be better but where they can go no further, the boy emerges as the novel’s moral conscience. The relationship between father and son has a sweetness that represents all that’s good in a universe where conventional notions of good and evil have been extinguished. Amid the bleakness of survival—through which those who wish they’d never been born struggle to persevere—there are glimmers of comedy in an encounter with an old man who plays the philosophical role of the Shakespearean fool. Though the sentences of McCarthy’s recent work are shorter and simpler than they once were, his prose combines the cadence of prophecy with the indelible images of poetry.
A novel of horrific beauty, where death is the only truth.Pub Date: Oct. 2, 2006
ISBN: 0-307-26543-9
Page Count: 288
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 2006
PERSPECTIVES
IN THE NEWS
SEEN & HEARD
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