SWAMPLANDIA! Karen Russell 315 pages. Alfred A. Knopf. $24.95
I have searched for writers, musicians and artists from Florida for the past year in an eff...moreSWAMPLANDIA! Karen Russell 315 pages. Alfred A. Knopf. $24.95
I have searched for writers, musicians and artists from Florida for the past year in an effort to uncover a native Florida culture. I am searching for the Florida that callous tourists, philandering golfers and deceitful politicians have concreted over.
My family heritage goes six generations back into that unforgiving country. We left Florida for Texas as I entered my teenage years. My memories fade.
What remain are impressions. The smell of saltwater and seaweed blowing in from the Atlantic Ocean across A1A. The squeal of a baby alligator nestled in the Lake Okeechobee brush at Port Mayaca. The blue land crabs with their claws defiantly held upward. The feeling that America was a place far, far away from there.
That low country tranquility permeates through Miami native Karen Russell's debut novel Swamplandia!, the story of the Bigtree family and their struggle to hold onto each other -- and their own identities -- in a rapidly modernizing Florida that is swiftly leaving them behind.
Russell made quite a splash in literary circles long before the release of Swamplandia!, and the anticipation for her first full-length novel has been high. Granta called her one of the "Best Young American Novelists," The New Yorker named her to its "20 Under 40" list and the back cover of Swamplandia! comes with effusive praise by Stephen King, Carl Hiaasen and Joseph O'Neill inked on it.
The basis for the book comes from Russell's short story, "Ava Wrestles the Alligator," which was initially published in Francis Ford Coppola's high-concept magazine Zoetrope and later included in her short story collection St. Lucy's Home for Girls Raised by Wolves.
The story goes that the Bigtree family -- The Chief, his wife Hillola, Grandpa Sawtooth and their children Ava, Osceola and Kiwi -- run the island alligator theme park from which the novel takes its name. Despite their names, they aren't Seminoles of Miccosukees, but instead a family of Ohio transplants. It turns out ol' Grandpa Sawtooth didn't take getting scammed on a 6-foot-deep plot of Everglades "farm land" during the '30s lying down.
Unfortunately, though, the reader's visit with the Bigtrees begins at the beginning of the end. Hillola dies suddenly, Grandpa is sent to an assisted-living facility on the mainland and the children and The Chief are left to try to save the park.
You'll read the first 75 pages of Swamplandia! slowly if you love descriptive language. On that back cover, Joseph O'Neill says the book is a "wonderfully fertile novel by an unfairly talented writer," and he's absolutely right. Turns of phrase and lush, evocative passages spill off the page and into another world.
Somewhere directly below Hillola Bigtree, dozens of alligators pushed their icicle overbites and the awesome diamonds of their heads through over three hundred thousand gallons of filtered water.
They sushed and crushed against and cursed at one another; couples curled their pale legs together like eels, beer spilled and kids wept.
Like black silk, the water bunched and wrinkled.
Those quotes are on the first two pages.
The Bigtree children, never educated in mainland schools, don't take the changes well. Kiwi runs off to the imposing, larger competitor, called The World of Darkness. Osceola becomes fascinated with communicating with the dead. Ava -- our narrator -- is pitched somewhere in between the her brother's pragmatic reality and her sister's otherworldly fantasy.
The Chief leaves to shore up money on the mainland and Osceola and Ava are left alone on island. Osceola takes up with a ghost she calls "The Dredgeman," and disappears to the Underworld when he promises to marry her. Ava takes off to rescue her and, back on the mainland, Kiwi, struggles to fit in with the rough-and-tumble South Florida teenagers who work for minimum wage at the World and live for cheap Friday night thrills.
Native Floridians will get a kick out of this book -- with its insider references and history. While many of Russell's geographic points are fictional, others -- Jupiter, Fort Pierce -- are real Treasure Coast locations.
And it doesn't take a deeply analytical reading of Russell's allegorical text to recognize the reference points Russell touches with her made-up names. The imposing city of Loomis is Miami or Fort Lauderdale or Naples or whatever South Florida city you want it to be. The World of Darkness is a jab at Walt Disney World and even Swamplandia! calls to mind roadside attractions like Gatorland, the Snake-a-torium and the Miccosukees who wrestled alligators for tourists before realizing gambling was much more profitable and easier on the fingers and limbs.
Therein lies one of Russell's great strengths. She is able to capture the imaginative, enterprising side of Florida natives, who are often painted as slow-witted Southerners, ambivalent Yankee hosts or hostile swamp people. For years Floridians have made a killing off tourists for half of the year, only to be left in relative peace for the other half. Florida natives welcomed out-of-towners with open arms, reached for their wallets and politely waited for them to go home. In fact, the real trouble began when the out-of-towners started to stay, but that's another essay.
Unfortunately, though Russell has a master's touch for language and character, she gets bogged down in the mud of a slow-building plot. The novel boldly asks you to decide whether or not it is fantasy, but places too much emphasis on descriptions that should crackle, but rather feel humdrum. Ms. Russell is a lightning bolt of a writer, and perhaps in future novels she can learn to hold a little back for the sake of plot development. This near-crawl of a pace works to her favor when she describes the story of Osceola's dead lover Louis Thanksgiving, but wallows when Russell spends dozens of pages describing each foot of Ava's journey into the Underworld, and surprisingly few pages resolving the story of her characters. And if you're not willing to at least tip-toe around the corners of a 14-year-old girl's fanciful story, well, don't bother.
Let's not be too hard on her, though. This is a great book, and to my knowledge it's undoubtedly the best, most challenging work of fiction set in Florida by a Florida writer in more than five decades. And for a first novel it sits at the front of a small class. It's full of humanity, humor and longing. It's full of history, mastery and brilliance. Once all the hype of the year's biggest releases is stripped away by time, it's certainly going to stand as the year's most inventive book.
Carl Hiaasen dedicated his collection of columns Kick Ass to those who "care about Florida." There aren't many who do in proportion to the number of people who live there, retire, there, vacation there, dump phosphorus into the waters there, fleece the elderly there, ship drugs there, build golf courses there, pave over natural beauty there and eventually leave there. There are only a few who see Florida as something more than an economy and a state, who see it as an idea about freedom and solitude, beauty and hardship. It seems like there are less every year. There are only a few who won't sneer and spit on Florida once they've used her up. Swamplandia! reads like a love letter to these folks -- for the Floridians who pine for the days when the St. Lucie River was pristine, when the tarpon and snook were so plentiful they used to jump in the boat, when people came for miles to P.P. Cobb's General Store.
Florida is most often the setting for crime novels --for good reason -- or a place protagonists are trapped and disgusted. About once a decade, a writer comes along -- Patrick Smith with A Land Remembered, Michael Grunwald's excellent The Swamp -- and writes a book that understands the state for what it is instead of what it isn't. While it's by no means a perfect book, Swamplandia! is now part of that list.(less)
MURDER CITY Ciudad Juárez and the Global Economy's New Killing Fields by Charles Bowden 352 pages. Nation Books. $27.50
Juárez is diseased. It doesn’t tak...moreMURDER CITY Ciudad Juárez and the Global Economy's New Killing Fields by Charles Bowden 352 pages. Nation Books. $27.50
Juárez is diseased. It doesn’t take a thorough read of Murder City: Cuidad Juárez and the Global Economy’s New Killing Fields to pick up on the fact that something is alarmingly wrong in a city where jobs pay immorally low wages, drugs and the people who deal them infiltrate the culture in all aspects, where the government and police are corrupt and massacre is commonplace.
For nearly 360 pages, though, writer Charles Bowden explores what a year in one of the most dangerous cities in the world—just a short walk away from the U.S. border—is like. He interviews a journalist fleeing for political asylum in the U.S. after an article he wrote offended the wrong person. He interviews a religious figure operating a makeshift mental asylum in the desert. He interviews a former sicario who has killed, and killed, and killed, and killed, now hunted by other killers and left with the weight of his sins.
In between these interviews, he watches as Mexican police exhume bodies from a neighborhood death house—which is exactly you think it is—and searches for a former patient at that asylum named “Miss Sinaloa,” who was brought there after a brutal rape at the hands of the Mexican police officers. Miss Sinaloa becomes a metaphor for Juárez, one that is interesting, but unnecessary. Juárez is a place that is recognizable to us. It is beautiful and hideous, human and barbaric.
Unfortunately, Bowden’s prose—a hard-bitten, clichéd New Journalism slice of Hemingway machismo—threatens to sink the book with a vague, abstract vibe that, though perhaps well-intentioned, does a disservice to the people of Juárez, whose stories have been woefully underreported by the U.S. and Mexican media. They come across as merely sketches at times here. In a recent interview with the New Yorker’s Book Bench, Bowden said the style was an attempt to convey the “the pain, the fear, and the ruin of the city.” Maybe, but I think it was an attempt to write a modern classic, the product of writer’s ego.
Bowden lets enough of a traditional narrative shine through to make the book—which runs for a short-but-by-no-means-breezy 230 pages—readable. That leaves the remaining pages of the book to an appendix where Bowden attempts to record the 2008 Juárez murders.
If you can complete the appendix without tearing up and feeling your heart sink into your stomach, then you are a stronger than I. The crushing weight of the repeated, meaningless murder—which is mostly happens to the city’s poor, both innocent and guilty—is too much for the human conscience to bear. I gave up after a few pages and just skimmed the seemingly infinite names, dates and causes of death.
Children raped and murdered. Old men murdered. Children orphaned. A city now home to more than 150,000 drug addicts. Thrill kills made by sicarios loaded with cocaine. Political assassinations, increasing in number.
What we bear witness to in Juárez—and Mexico as a whole—is not just a war for drugs (Bowden astutely notes that the corrupt Mexican Army seeks to control the drug trade for their own personal and financial reasons—many “seized” drug shipments somehow find their way back on the street in the U.S. and Mexico), but rather the entire breakdown of law, order, civilization and humanity within a nation that borders our own. It is not a problem confined to a race or nation, though, but rather a problem endemic in us forever—the darkness ever-present in men’s souls and hearts.
Murder City is long on description and short on answers, and for good reason. What solutions are there for human depravity? None stick. Truly “clean” religious figures are hard to find in a country where priests have been quoted saying the drug dealers that build their cathedrals and churches are very generous—where sicarios have their bullets blessed by priests. When Bowden, an atheist, finds them, he allows them to speak in long blocks of text. A good man is hard to find. Drug money isn’t part of life in Juárez, it fuels life.
Bowden, for his part, focuses on the hopelessness of jobs in a city that is considered by some to be a model of the global economy, but where in reality workers work grueling hours to produce inexpensive American goods for $70 a week in a town where the cost of living is only about 10 percent less than it is in the U.S.
He also thinks that perhaps, just maybe, giving the wholly corrupt Mexican Army (who are often responsible for the killings, especially after Mexican President Felipe Calderon’s 2008 decision to dispatch them to the city to combat the drug violence) billions of dollars in U.S. aid is a bad idea.
Murder City is an uneven book by a very good journalist, one who has spent more time in the Juárez dust than any other working U.S. writer. Despite this unevenness, it’s a book that becomes more relevant with each headline. Within weeks of my writing this, a car bomb has exploded in Mexico City, it has been revealed that a prison warden was releasing incarcerated sicarios and then stocking them with vehicles and weapons to perform nighttime murders, and thousands of glue-sniffing Mexico City teenagers have begun flocking to a cathedral to pay tribute to patron saint of lost causes St. Jude. Resolution will not come quickly.(less)
WHEN THAT ROUGH GOD GOES RIDING Listening to Van Morrison Greil Marcus 208 pages. PublicAffairs. $22.95
In an interview published in 1977 by the Paris Rev...moreWHEN THAT ROUGH GOD GOES RIDING Listening to Van Morrison Greil Marcus 208 pages. PublicAffairs. $22.95
In an interview published in 1977 by the Paris Review and conducted almost a decade earlier, Slaughterhouse Five author Kurt Vonnegut said, “I think it can be tremendously refreshing if a creator of literature has something on his mind other than the history of literature so far. Literature should not disappear up its own asshole, so to speak.”
It’s a classic Vonnegut quote--funny, cranky, iconoclastic and ultimately true--but it’s an idea that extends beyond literature to all writing, and especially, criticism.
Vonnegut’s statement shines light on exactly what’s wrong with When That Rough God Goes Riding: Listening to Van Morrison, the latest book by respected journalist and critic Greil Marcus. In the book, Marcus tackles the career of Irish rock legend Van Morrison, and his lifelong search for something called the “yarragh.” The term comes from Irish tenor John McCormack and denotes a type of soulfulness and honesty.
These days Morrison’s search for the yarragh is either concluded or on hold, as the 65-year-old musician seems more than content to coast by, creating a decent-if-not-remarkable late-period body of work that doesn’t stand out above CDs recently released by peers like Bob Dylan or even Levon Helm. In fact, each new CD by Morrison has become remarkably predictable in production style and lyrical content. The now-corpulent Morrison will almost certainly include a track in which he complains that the press doesn’t understand him, then one nostalgic over times or friends long gone, all set to a shuffling mid-tempo beat.
His latest set of CDs have been a mixed bag--from the elegant trio of Down the Road, What’s Wrong With This Picture? and Magic Time to the dreadful country record known as Pay the Devil and the bloody, mutilated corpse of Astral Weeks: Live at the Hollywood Bowl--and less ink is spilled on him these days than, say, Dylan or Paul McCartney.
But back in the late ’60s and ’70s, Morrison was, to borrow a term from former Florida governor Claude Roy Kirk, a tree-shakin’ son-of-a-bitch. His run of albums from Astral Weeks to Veedon Fleece will change the receptive listener’s ear forever. In fact, I would take almost any of Morrison’s albums from this era over any of Dylan’s best work to a desert island. And I love Bob Dylan’s music, so that’s no faint praise.
Marcus knows both subjects well. His two books on Dylan, Invisible Republic and Like A Rolling Stone, are excellent, well-researched gazes into Dylan’s workshop, and they are required reading for any serious music criticism student. Marcus has said in recent interviews that he has another book on Dylan in the works. Dylan--ever parenthetical and Midwestern, with intellect spilling out of his being--is a much better match for Marcus than the contemplative and uncertain Morrison.
Rough God, which will be out in paperback in just over a month, is a lively an unrivaled guide to the high points of Morrison’s formidable discography. Marcus has an unparalleled knowledge of Morrison’s work--he probably knows more about the nooks and crannies than Morrison himself--and his chapters on "Caledonia Soul Music," an 18-minute, largely instrumental rehearsal released to radio station KSAN, and The Inner Mystic, a Morrison concert bootleg also broadcast on that radio station--will have you scouring YouTube or other corners of the Internet to find these excellent live performances from one of Morrison’s most fertile creative periods.
Marcus also highlights the best work of some of Morrison’s least creative periods (basically most of the ‘80s), and summarily dissuades readers from getting too lost in an era where Morrison also disappeared up his own asshole. That’s not to say that he doesn’t miss some fine moments from that era like Dweller on the Threshold, Cleaning Windows, Across the Bridge Where the Angels Dwell and many more, but by-and-large, his honesty about this dull period in Morrison’s career is refreshing, and it will save the reader from dropping any hard-earned coin on 1987’s Poetic Champion’s Compose or 1986’s No Guru, No Method, No Teacher.
But about that disappearing-up-its-own-asshole thing: The combination of Morrison--known for being grouchy, lonely and uncommunicative in his all-consuming desire to make the sort of music he wants to make--and Marcus--known for being solipsistic and twit-like in his eternal quest to turn writing opinions about rock music into high academia--makes for a combination as deadly as carbon monoxide and drowsiness. Quite simply, parts of this book can be absurdly snobbish. Marcus tries to describe the way Morrison’s most transcendent work should make the listener feel, and it’s a losing battle--in part because Morrison’s work is meant to be heard and in part because Marcus dreams up contrived descriptions that still come off as bland and cliched.
For example, Marcus spends several pages describing the importance of the way Morrison delivers the word “China” “Chiney” on the title track of his 1971 album Tupelo Honey. “‘All the tea in Chiney,’ then that ‘Because--’those words jump out of the song and bang up against each other make as a true a yarragh, a breach, as any other.’”
Thankfully, the book is short and while at times it can be painfully dry, reading about the corners of Morrison’s career that haven’t made it to major label release are entertaining enough to save the book from being a total dud, but still the dud moments are there. Marcus chooses stunningly great tracks and albums to write about--covering Morrison’s days as a garage rocker in Them to Astral Weeks to his later CDs and guest appearances with people like Mark Knopfler--and then stumbles when he explains why he chose them.
As Dave Ferman pointed out in his review of Andrew Earles’ Husker Du book on DWO a little while back, these sorts of works thrive with good reporting. While Marcus was no doubt framing this book as a series of personal essays, a phone call to some musicians who have played in Morrison’s band over the years, or to a former DJ at KSAN or perhaps someone who could give context to any of the eras this book covers--basically any voice other than that of Marcus and Morrison--who, famous for being reclusive, is not interviewed--would have helped Marcus craft this sketch of a book into another classic.
There’s a great book to be written about the emotional impact of Morrison’s music. Unfortunately, the person best suited to write it has been dead for nearly 30 years. Lester Bangs wrote a fantastic essay on Astral Weeks for Stranded, a book edited by Greil Marcus and published in 1979. In it, he wrote about Morrison’s career-defining second solo album Astral Weeks:
"As a matter of fact, there's a whole lot of Astral Weeks I don't even want to tell you about. Both because whether you've heard it or not it wouldn't be fair for me to impose my interpretation of such lapidarily subjective imagery on you, and because in many cases I don't really know what he's talking about. He doesn't either: 'I'm not surprised that people get different meanings out of my songs," he told a Rolling Stone interviewer. 'But I don't wanna give the impression that I know what everything means 'cause I don't ... There are times when I'm mystified. I look at some of the stuff that comes out, y'know. And like, there it is and it feels right, but I can't say for sure what it means.'"
Bangs was able to communicate that the emotional and intellectual impact of Van Morrison’s work is not about words. It’s not about the instruments, the rhythms--those are all means to an end. Later in the essay, he recounts a Morrison performance at the Fillmore East in 1970:
"He climaxes, as he always did in those days, with "Cyprus Avenue" from Astral Weeks. After going through all the verses, he drives the song, the band, and himself to a finish which has since become one of his trademarks and one of the all-time classic rock 'n' roll set-closers. With consummate dynamics that allow him to snap from indescribably eccentric throwaway phrasing to sheer passion in the very next breath he brings the music surging up through crescendo after crescendo, stopping and starting and stopping and starting the song again and again, imposing long maniacal silences like giant question marks between the stops and starts and ruling the room through sheer tension, building to a shout of "It's too late to stop now!" and just when you think it's all going to surge over the top, he cuts it off stone cold dead, the hollow of a murdered explosion, throws the microphone down and stalks off the stage. It is truly one of the most perverse things I have ever seen a performer do in my life. And, of course, it's sensational: Our guts are knotted up, we're crazed and clawing for more, but we damn well know we've seen and felt something."
Yarragh it is.
A final note on Rough God: I was given this book as a Christmas gift from a dear friend, and lest he read this and think that I was anything less than grateful to receive it, I must say that the opportunity to read about Van Morrison made for a thrilling gift for a fan like me, and I am grateful to have such a thoughtful friend. I’ve decided to take my critical eye to the book because the book stirred me up and opened my eyes to corners of a catalog I thought I had explored in detail already. So, thanks, friend, and I can’t wait to discuss more Morrison when I see you again.(less)
I'm not a conservative or a fan of either Christopher Buckley or his father, National Review founder William F. Buckley, but love and death don't have...moreI'm not a conservative or a fan of either Christopher Buckley or his father, National Review founder William F. Buckley, but love and death don't have political parties, and I found this to be an earnest look at the weight & emotions of losing a parent. Neither "Mum" nor "Pup" are particularly likable, but, then again, if any of us were rendered honestly by someone who knows us so intimately, I doubt we would be, either. Regardless of your affiliation, Losing Mum and Pup reads fast, hits hard and stays true to an experience that most of all of us have or will live through.(less)
The Barefoot Mailman is a fun-if-simple look at South Florida before development and overpopulation turned it into whatever it is you think it is toda...moreThe Barefoot Mailman is a fun-if-simple look at South Florida before development and overpopulation turned it into whatever it is you think it is today. The story, about a young mail carrier struggling with adulthood, love and the encroaching development, doesn't have the deepest characters, but they are honestly drawn, and it would be a good book for a kid to read. If you're picking between Florida classics, though, start with A Land Remembered and put this one a little farther down the list. (less)
You already know all the techniques from this book; you've just forgotten them. "Writing That Works" is a brief reference book that helps tighten your...moreYou already know all the techniques from this book; you've just forgotten them. "Writing That Works" is a brief reference book that helps tighten your business writing. Most MBA programs could hand this out and toss out a business communication course. It's a good book to keep on your desk.(less)
If it was good enough for Warren Buffett, it's good enough for me. This book has a lot of old-fashioned, simple maxims and techniques that it never hu...moreIf it was good enough for Warren Buffett, it's good enough for me. This book has a lot of old-fashioned, simple maxims and techniques that it never hurts to review. (less)