Down and Out in Paris and London

George Orwell’s first book is a memoir of his times tramping about Paris and London scrounging around for food and shelter. The first half of the book covers his time living in Paris, working as a dishwasher in hotels and desperately trying to pay the rent. The second half of the book reveals his time living as a tramp (literally!) around the London area, moving from shelter to shelter and living on a daily ration of bread and butter.

As a memoir, it contains nearly now plot arc, but is merely sequenced by the order of the events, regardless of their value as part of the narrative. The closest parallel to a plot arc in the text is the fact that, as the book goes on, Orwell’s situation becomes more and more dire. The characters in the Paris portion of the book are much more entertaining and funny and, although he is often pawning most of his clothing for food money, it never seems as though he is in any real danger. This may be because he has his own apartment (even though shabby) and his friends are very creative when it comes to finding money. Regardless of the reason, in Paris his poverty felt more like watching a sitcom than reading the pleas for help of a desperate man.

Yet, when he arrives in London, he is suddenly is homeless and destitute. He is forced to wander from shelter to shelter each day, surviving on bread and butter and smoking cigarettes made from the tobacco of cigarettes other people threw away. At times, the reader actually fears for his life as he is locked in with strangers in cells at shelters. Despite the intellect that we know he has, he is caught in a situation with seemingly no way out (until a job he was promised before he moved to London becomes available). He is a man lost in a sea of impoverished masses.

As his situation grows worse, his prose becomes much more purpose driven. We begin to see the seeds of class and political ideals which would flavor his later (and much more famous) work, such as “Animal Farm” and “1984.” He blames the plight of the tramp on the capitalist society which punishes people who are productive but whose skills are not valued, while sometimes rewarding those whose skills are valued regardless of whether or not they are productive. Although his later texts would be characterized as blatantly anti-communist, certain passages of this book would be clearly anti-capitalist. (From these opposing points, then, we cannot infer any political leanings from his books, except an opposition to politics and institutions that would repress and control any part of those it purports to represent.

Ultimately, this is a pretty good start for a writer whose influence on literature (and the politics in literature) would become very powerful. It is not a great book, by any means, but it shows glimmers of the potential greatness that he would later achieve.

Manhood for Amateurs

A few months ago, I stumbled across this new Michael Chabon book at the local book megalopolis and bought it without hesitation, even though I was still in the middle of reading "Maps and Legends" (reviewed here earlier). Surprisingly, although the book was published in October, there isn't much online for it. Rather, the book seems to have arrived without much fanfare or comment. (In fact, if you closely examine Chabon's Wikipedia page, there's still nothing about it.)

The full title of the book is "Manhood for Amateurs: The Pleasures and Regrets of a Husband, Father, and Son." The cover depicts a type of "compass" for manhood, which pretty well

Essentially, the book is a collection of essays (and most of them very short) on the topic of "manhood" (at once a dubious term, after finishing reading). The essays are broken into four "movements," beginning generally with childhood and moving through life - young adulthood, marriage (and divorce), fatherhood, and ending with some thoughts on human mortality (not unlike the Joyce classic "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.")

What is amazing about Michael Chabon's work, as always, is his ability to use the mundane and common to signify something much deeper about the human condition. For example, in one essay he uses a description of a gift his father gave him - some old baseball cards - to launch into a reflection on how his father symbolically passed on to him the All-American-Man game of baseball. In another, a question from one of his little sons about how to draw a girl leads into a larger discussion as to whether or not, as men, we can ever truly understand women.

The weakest phase in the book is in regards to middle-age and beyond, though I attribute this to his lack of experience and perspective on those matters.

Whereas the essays in "Maps and Legends" discussed larger cultural issues - the value of genre fiction - the essays in "Manhood" are much shorter and incredibly personal. This is a new side of Michael Chabon. Until now, his novels have remained largely impersonal. We've been forced to interpret him through his plots and characters - such as Grady Tripp's struggles with writing his book in "Wonder Boys" as a reflection of Chabon's own attempts to finish his second novel "Fountain City." (And, as a would-be critic, this reasoning is weak at best and irresponsible at worst.) Still, even here - when Chabon seems to be revealing everything to us - he still hides behind a thin mist of symbolism and metaphor - as though he can't exactly tell us some things directly.

Chabon's writing is still masterful and entertaining. I'm happy to pass this book on to my dad, as well as to re-read it in the years and years to come.

Maps and Legends

The first edition of Michael Chabon’s “Maps and Legends” – put out by the great McSweeney's Publishing in 2008 – has perhaps the most interesting cover I have ever seen. The actual hardcover volume has several colorful and uniquely decorated paper dust jackets, each a little smaller than the one underneath, which are spread so that you are able to see a bit of each at the same time.

This opening invitation to inspect and look at each intricate dust jacket, each as its own cover and as part of the larger cover artwork, is a metaphor that can be extended to the contents of the book. Each essay can be read as an individual piece of writing, or as part of the larger book.

It would be irresponsible for me to describe each individual essay of the book instead of encouraging you to savor them yourself, so instead I’ll stick to discussing the larger themes and highlighting a . (Truth Time: It would be TIME CONSUMING for me to describe each essay, and I’m feeling very, very lazy).

The title essay describes Chabon’s childhood fascination with enterprising through his neighborhood and planned wilderness (he practically had a forest for a backyard), and then creating personalized maps for the area. Although my own childhood took place in a grid-structured suburb which left little to actually be discovered, I was still able to relate to the childhood urge to explore, to find and expand boundaries – both literal and metaphorical.

These ideas of adventure, exploration, and boundaries are the central theme of the book, even when the essays are ostensibly about other subjects.

For example, one piece consists of a book review of Cormac McCarthy’s novel “The Road” (reviewed here earlier) but much of the work attempts to define the “borderland” between genre-fiction and “serious” fiction that McCarthy’s masterpiece inhabits. Another part seems to be an extended review of Phillip Pullman’s “His Dark Materials” trilogy (which I still haven’t read, and, somehow, lack even a sliver of an urge to read), but really questions the nature of the ever-hazy Young Adult form of literature. There is even an essay about the history of Sherlock Holmes which leads to a discussion of the history of fan fiction and fan fiction’s place in the halls of literature. (There are, of course, parts on the relevance of comic books - one of Chabon's recurring subjects.)

The biggest pitfall of the book is that several of the essays center their argument around very specific subjects (such as Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road”). If you do not have the requisite background knowledge, reading these chapters can be like wandering an unfamiliar city without a map (if you don’t mind me using the map metaphor). This is not to say that these parts are not enjoyable, but just that it can be harder to find the intellectual landmarks which make them interesting. (In the language of teaching - which I am occasionally wont to use - cultural capital makes the book understandable.)

Ultimately, in the spirit of the work, I’m going to encourage you to have an adventure – take a jump, explore the book, and make your own map!

The Joke's Over

A few days ago, I finished reading Ralph Steadman's book "The Joke's Over." The 2006 book is a memoir of sorts, chronicling Steadman's professional and personal relationship with the late writer Hunter S. Thompson.

The book begins very slowly and seemed very disappointing at first. Essentially, the first chapter discusses how Steadman and Thompson were first assigned to each other and met for their first assignment at the 1970 Kentucky Derby. This was disappointing because this meeting and event was already covered by Thompson in the article "The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved."

But after that, Steadman's narrative changes a bit and focuses more on telling anecdotal stories about times he spent with Thompson, filming documentaries or preparing books together. Steadman's book seems like a "Behind-the-Scenes" feature or "Collaborator's Commentary" to Thompson's writings. Steadman gives us a bit more context and material to consider, clarifying much of what was distorted in Thompson's articles (or, perhaps, considering Steadman's art, distorting them further).

Although Thompson usually presented himself as an invincible embodiment of freedom and masculinity, Steadman's book shows Thompson as being much more human and fallible. There is an extensive section which discuss his painful attempts to write about the Honolulu Marathon, which eventually lead to his personal and internal struggles trying to complete "The Curse of Lono." Although Steadman and Thompson were collaborators on the Lono book, Steadman makes it clear that Thompson made it a difficult book to complete, and strained their relationship. Although their personal relationship continued until Thompson's suicide in 2005, it is clear that their professional collaborations essentially ended after the Lono experiment.

Steadman's book on Thompson is weakened mainly by the fact that, in all truth, their work and time spent together was relatively limited, and that their collaborations were often just one of many projects Steadman on which Steadman was working. Significant portions of the book are spent discussing his other projects and events only tangentially related to Thompson. Which would be fine, except the book was clearly marketed (even to the point of the subtitle: "Bruised Memories: Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson, and Me) as being about Steadman's work with the late writer.

It is evident, from reading, though, that Steadman was not, in any way, trying to leech off Thompson's death or to profit from his pain. His tone, when writing of Thompson, is usually tender and kind, and occasionally bittersweet. He is reflecting upon the life of a unique man, with whom he worked regularly. And, put simply, it is often touching.

Lastly, I want to share one passage of the book which particularly struck me. It comes from Steadman's journal of their time in Hawaii, working on the Lono book. They have visited a ancient Hawaiian sacred temple, and decided not to disturb it (except to take a quick picture).

"The most important thing about being in the City of Refuge is simply that you are there, steeped in the blackness and fanned by the waving palms, surrounded by stories far, more significant than ours. They are stories that speak with authority, tried and tested and passed down from father to son and mother to daughter. We had no story to tell there. There are no stories to tell gods. They know them all. We need only to listen and look. Their stories are everywhere. Carved grimacing faces shout truths that never change and stand as irrefutable proof of what no longer survives outside this sacred place." (222)

That may have been Thompson's problem all along...