Franzen's Freedom, and the Female Frame of Reference

Freedom by Jonathan Franzen

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When it comes to Freedom (by Jonathan Franzen, in case you were wondering), there’s almost certainly no need for me to sprinkle my few additional drops of commentary into the raging river of discussion that's already flowed across the internet. But I really, truly like Freedom a lot and feel obligated to add my tiny voice of support (could it be love???) for the book in the face of what seems to be some kind of Franzen-backlash.

Part of me would love to join in the backlash. The man writes so exceptionally well, with such precision, such insight, that it’s hard to be anything but jealous. Opening this book is like turning on the faucet: it just flows, smooth and clear and steady until you choose to turn it off. It’s a big book that flies by; every page features at least one beautiful, sharp description or wonderful turn of phrase, or surprisingly hilarious (usually coal-black) observation about people. That it’s also generally a depressing work makes its pleasurable readability all the more remarkable.

It also synthesizes in just the right ways that I like novels to synthesize: it has Big Points to make, but is also funny and accessible; its scope is wide but has a simple, human core; it makes the small into something grand, and elegantly vice versa.

To be sure, there were some sections that I liked more than others, a few moments of expositional slog (that took place in the middle of the book, oddly), and a few clunky moments that teetered just on the edge of preachiness. But those moments were few and far between: I mention them only because I refuse to give the impression that any book is perfect.

I was also impressed that, with 500+ pages of windup, the conclusion could manage to live up to all that had come before. I was more than pleased that the book ends in an elegant, restrained, yet emotionally satisfying way. I MIGHT have pulled up my hood on the train this morning to hide the few tender tears I shed into my scarf.

My one remaining qualm is that I need to talk to a lady ASAP about Freedom. I’d argue that the sections written by the main female character, Patty Berglund, were far and away the most compelling, visceral, beautifully written parts of the whole book. They also felt the most authentic to me (admittedly a man). So I’m desperate now to push this book on my wife, that she might validate or invalidate my feelings (as the case may be) about the truth (or lack thereof) of Franzen's female perspective. Really, though, I’d push this book on anyone. I loved it.

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The Sot-Weed Factor: Surprisingly Gross, Totally Great

The Sot-Weed Factor by John Barth

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The Sot-Weed Factor was a gift from my Aunt, who, in her inscription, said that she hoped I enjoy one of her favorite books. Well, mission accomplished: it may now be one of my favorite books as well. Written in the 1960s in quasi-Elizabethan English, The Sot-Weed Factor both mocks, and is, a huge, sprawling, picaresque tale in the grand 18th century tradition. The story is a huge, chaotic romp through the beginnings of America in the late 17th century, filled with pirates, “salvages,” stormy seas, narrow escapes, disguises, adventures, coincidences, love, lust, scatology, and plentiful disasters. (Actually, nearly everything in the book, including all the elements of that list, could be classified in the “disaster” column. The plot is pretty much nothing more than our “hero,” a self-styled hudibrastic (I had no idea either) poet named Ebenezer Cooke stumbling pitifully from one disaster to the next.)

It’s a hilarious book; aside from the overarching satirical conceit, it’s just plain funny. I am, of course, a sucker for scatological humor in all forms, and this book delivers those particular goods many times over. At the same time, there are some genuine issues being explored, albeit in a comic manner: issues of identity are primary, especially in the larger context of the New World throwing all the Old World systems and structures topsy-turvy; in fledgling Maryland anybody can be anyone or anything; all the long-understood hierarchies and social structures – not to mention law & order – have broken down and are being rebuilt in new, confusing ways.

I found myself laughing more while reading this book than I have since I last read one my all-time favorites, A Confederacy of Dunces (there are other tragi-comic connections between those two books, as well). The Elizabethan, archaic style manages to be both readable and slightly challenging – as novels of the 18th and 19th century are sometimes wont to be – yet a surprising amount of comedy comes from the language itself, especially as Barth skewers the John Smith/Pocahontas story in the form of competing journals written by Smith and an associate in even more heightened dialect. Even at 750+ pages, I was never bored, though I was admittedly eager to be finished by the time the end was in sight.

And the ending provides me with one of my very few quibbles: I will acknowledge the enormous difficulty of wrapping up such an enormous assortment of characters and sub-plots, yet I felt skimped by the ending. Too much was casually dismissed, left hanging, or inelegantly slammed shut for my liking. Having been put through the wringer for 750 pages, some of the contrivances used to tie all the loose ends up felt like cheating – building up insolvable challenges for the reader to be invested in, and then swatting them away like so many irritating mosquitoes in conclusion. I’m sure the huge work of the novel made it virtually impossible to conclude in a completely satisfying way, but I register my quibble nonetheless!

All in all, this is a great, hilarious, epic romp of a book. Enjoyable from the beginning to (mostly) the end.

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Friday Music Roundup: Laura Marling, Sun Kil Moon, Ray LaMontagne

With regrets for not posting anything in the entire month of October, I offer a Friday roundup of some great new(ish) music I've been enjoying recently. What can you do...some months are just busier than others. What's done is done, what's past is past. Onward, culturephiles!

Laura Marling - I Speak Because I Can
Not being up on the British indie-folk scene generally or the British indie-folk scene gossip in particular, I was intrigued to find out that Laura Marling’s band may or may not be Mumford & Sons (previously seen on this blog), and her breakup with the lead singer of Noah and the Whale (also previously seen on this blog) may or may not have inspired the great album First Days of Spring. This is one tangled up scene of Appalachian-music-loving Brits! Marling’s album reminds me a little bit of Heartbreaker-era Ryan Adams at his quietest and folkiest, and a lot bit of a female-fronted Mumford & Sons for obvious reasons. And while the delicate-voiced Marling doesn’t sound anything like Cary Ann Hearst (also recently profiled here), they both share a similarly moody, gothic brand of folk. I Speak Because I Can is mostly quiet and compelling (unlike the raucous Hearst album), but there are still some driving banjo-led rhythms courtesy of Mumford & Sons, as well as some great sounds and production, jangling away even as the overall mood is somber. Regardless of Laura Marling’s connections and interconnections with all these different people, this is a good, catchy, mellow album, worthy of a listen. It may not break any major new ground, but it’s solid through-and-through.

Sun Kil Moon – Admiral Fell Promises
You have to be in the right mood to enjoy Sun Kil Moon. Talk about somber – this album is “somber” like suicide is “a bummer.” This is laser-intense gloom; claustrophobics need not apply. Occasionally I’ll find myself listening to this album and immediately and desperately need to turn it off at all costs. But in the right mood, it’s an absolutely beautiful, mournful contemplation and exploration of musical ideas. The whole album consists of Mark Kozalek‘s multi-tracked voice accompanied by little else than a classical guitar. Various websites lead me to believe that Kozalek plays this guitar himself. If that’s the case, he’s not just a talented singer/songwriter, but a truly exceptional guitarist as well. The classically-inspired, jazz-inflected guitar work is stunning – almost worth the price of admission alone.

Ray LaMontagne & The Pariah Dogs – God Willin' & The Creek Don't Rise
I’m a sucker for Ray LaMontagne (as is well documented here), but what keeps me coming back is his ability to surprise me just a little bit with each album while still maintaining the familiar core that drew me to his music in the first place. This album has the same melancholic, hushed heart as Ray’s previous albums, but the leadoff track is a funky 70s style kiss-off jam; the title track is a genre piece, a shimmering, reverb-laden cowboy’s lament; the closing song is a foot-stomping, bluesy rave-up. In the middle are the hushed ballads we expect, each of them as solid as anything LaMontagne’s done before. His smoky voice remains in great form, his new band is twangy and tight, the songs brim with familiar themes expressed in new and different ways. All in all, Ray LaMontagne is giving the music world a master-class in how to develop artistically without changing your stripes. No need for a rapper to start singing suddenly, for a rockstar to “go country,” or for anybody to cynically don an alter-ego in order to work in some other genre. You can, in fact, keep your heart in the music, refusing to abandon your strengths, while still experimenting around the edges, expanding boundaries and slowly-but-surely stretching the outer limits. Only nitpick? Worst album-cover art of the year, bar none.