The Lay of the Land

Frank Bascombe #3

by Richard Ford

Frank Bascombe returns, with a new lease on life (and real estate), more acutely in thrall to life’s endless complexities than ever before. A holiday, and a novel, no reader will ever forget—at once hilarious, harrowing, surprising, and profound.

With The Sportswriter, in 1986, Richard Ford commenced a cycle of novels that ten years later—after Independence Day won both the Pulitzer Prize and the PEN/Faulkner Award—was hailed by The Times of London as “an extraordinary epic [that] is nothing less than the story of the twentieth century itself.” Now, a decade later, Frank Bascombe returns, with a new lease on life (and real estate), more acutely in thrall to life’s endless complexities than ever before.

Frank's story resumes in the autumn of 2000, when his trade as a realtor on the Jersey Shore is thriving, permitting him to revel in the acceptance of “that long, stretching-out time when my dreams would have mystery like any ordinary person’s; when whatever I do or say, who I marry, how my kids turn out, becomes what the world—if it makes note at all—knows of me, how I’m seen, understood, even how I think of myself before whatever there is that’s wild and unassuagable rises and cheerlessly hauls me off to oblivion.” But as a Presidential election hangs in the balance, and a postnuclear-family Thanksgiving looms before him along with crises both marital and medical, Frank discovers that what he terms the Permanent Period is fraught with unforeseen perils: “All the ways that life feels like life at age fifty-five were strewn around me like poppies.”

A holiday, and a novel, no reader will ever forget—at once hilarious, harrowing, surprising, and profound. The Lay of the Land is astonishing in its own right and a magnificent expansion of one of the most celebrated chronicles of our time.

Genres: Fiction, Novels, Literature, Literary Fiction, American, Contemporary, Audiobook

485 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 2006

About the author

Richard Ford, born February 16, 1944 in Jackson, Mississippi, is an American novelist and short story writer. His best-known works are the novel The Sportswriter and its sequels, Independence Day, The Lay of the Land and Let Me Be Frank With You, and the short story collection Rock Springs, which contains several widely anthologized stories. Comparisons have been drawn between Ford's work and the writings of John Updike, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway and Walker Percy.

His novel Independence Day won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1996, also winning the PEN/Faulkner Award in the same year.

Reviews

[Jaline · Rating 5 out of 5]

In this third novel of the Frank Bascombe quartet, we find Frank in what he calls his “Permanent” phase. Frank is now 55 years old, he feels estranged from his son, has a tentatively good relationship with his daughter, and his ex-wife (a widow in her second marriage) still enters his life from time to time.

I can’t help being fascinated with Frank’s life and I’m not sure why. I also can’t help being mesmerized by Richard Ford’s writing. According to my eBook, this novel has 697 pages. My guess is that if all the conversations were spliced from the novel, they might fill one-fifth of the novel. The remainder of the time is spent in Frank’s head – observing what he sees, following his thoughts as each conversation stimulates an entire story consisting of memories, associations, and descriptions of places and people.

This novel – in fact, this whole series so far – is one of those where you are compelled to fall right into it and live moment by moment in uncomfortable (at times) proximity with the protagonist. So close that I couldn’t help laughing at the things Frank found funny; so poignant that I felt Frank’s experiences like those of a very close (if somewhat disconcerting) friend.

Frank is still in real estate and he has a partner in his own firm now: a fellow named Mike who is of eastern ancestry, a Buddhist who adopted an Irish last name, and is amazingly clever and business savvy despite his naivety.

I won’t go into Frank’s love life because it would open up a whole world of spoilers, but I will say this: Frank, being Frank, is often consumed by, and bewildered by, his love life. He believes he knows what he wants and needs, yet when these wants and needs are satisfied, he never quite feels complete within himself.

Frank’s life model could be said to follow the line, “Question everything.” Because he does – and he takes the reader by the hand and makes you question everything, too.

Brilliantly written, highly entertaining, this series of novels has so far been a unique reading experience for me. In many ways, I even feel that I have gotten to know the men in my family and my men friends better by reading this novel. And – not surprised – it has also helped me to know my female friends better, too. Including myself.

[Melanie · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Dennett had three things to say about how we should live. The secret to spirituality had nothing to do with the soul, or anything supernatural-- it was this: let your self go. "If you can approach the world's complexities, both its glories and its horrors, with an attitude of humble curiosity, acknowledging that however deeply you have seen, you have only just scratched the surface, you will find worlds within worlds, beauties you could not heretofore imagine, and your own mundane preoccupations will shrink to proper size, not all that important in the great scheme of things. Keeping that awestruck vision of the world ready to hand while dealing with the demands of daily living is no easy exercise, but it is definitely worth the effort, for if you can stay centered, and engaged, you will find the hard choices easier, the right words will come to you when you need them, and you will indeed be a better person."
From "The Age of Atheists" by Peter Watson

Could Frank Bascombe be The Great American Existentialist character?

Never before have I felt such powerful and intrinsic descriptions of how I personally feel when I happen to wander through Middle America's landscape of suburbia, the alignment of stores along the highway (oh the poetry of Home Depot and Target and Kohl's and Walmart), the clusters of houses constituting a "town", the widening of empty spaces between centers of activity, the deafening silence in mid-afternoon, the evisceration of community, the quiet existential despair you can almost hear in poorer neighborhoods and vacant parking lots drenched in sunlight.

And here comes Frank Bascombe, realtor extraordinaire, dealing with the customary prostate cancer scare and the upcoming upheavals of Thanksgiving celebrations. Three days in and around the beach town of Sea Clift feel like a Joycean and Camusian promenade along the New Jersey shore, with a touch of Bruce Springsteen angst and "About Schmidt" quiet desperation. Frank Bascombe is just a regular guy trying to deal with the demands of daily living and trying to stay centered and engaged in the process.

Except Frank Bascombe is anything but a regular guy. He is an astoundingly perceptive, impossibly funny, stubbornly eager and repeatedly awestruck American man, father, twice husband, once divorced, once abandoned, whose musings about women and men, politics, Democrats and Republicans, fathers and sons, fathers and daughters, work, real estate, the philosophical stages of life, the inescapability of death, immigration, self-actualization and the various "delights" of aging will make you weak at the knees at every single turn.

If you haven't met Frank yet, I urge you to start at the beginning with "The Sportswriter" and "Independence Day". These melancholy and anger-fueled works of art will introduce you to a character who will stake a permanent place in your heart and your pantheon of unforgettable characters.

[B the BookAddict · Rating 5 out of 5]

Few writers can detail just three days in some 500 pages and still keep the reader interested but Richard Ford can.

This novel is unsentimental, humorous and distinct prose: the third about Frank Bascombe, although this is definitely a stand alone book. I have not read the two previous in the set but this didn't detract from my understanding and appreciation of this wonderful novel. There is not an extraneous sentence, not a word too many, not a character irrelevant in The Lay of the Land. Frank Bascombe, the fifty-five yr old NJ real estate salesman; recent sufferer of prostrate cancer, once divorced-twice married father of two whose current wife has just left him for her legally dead husband and Frank is about the experience three days like never before. Superb reading: will go on my Best of the Best shelf.5★

[Kiekiat · Rating 4 out of 5]

After ten years of having this book lie unread on my shelves, I finally got around to reading it, twelve years after it was published. I remember seeing the book on the remainder shelf at Barnes & Noble a couple years after its issue, and felt sad that one of Richard Ford's books had apparently fallen into oblivion so fast.

This is the third book in what used to be called, "The Sportswriter Trilogy." I'm not sure if that title still holds since,, as with John Updike's "Rabbit" trilogy, a 4th book has emerged in 2016 as a sort of coda--though from reviews I've read on here it is less a "wrapping up" than an admission that life can never be summed up in a tidy package.

In The Lay of the Land, Frank Bascome, narrator of Ford's The Sportswriter and Independence Day, is back and has moved from Haddam, the once quaint but now gentrified New Jersey town he lived in many years, to the shore. He is still selling real estate and prospering and is still ruminating about all sorts of pithy insights and memories of the past, particularly the death of his 9-year-0ld son many years before, and the break-up of his first marriage, which happens in The Sportswriter.

His life at age fifty-five is a mixture of career success, regret, coming to terms with his mortality (he is being treated for Prostate Cancer) and dealing with a bizarre circumstance that has riven his second marriage. Frank's also dealing with his two surviving children and his daughter, Clarissa, is living with him after leaving her girlfriend in New York. Frank is sad about Clarissa's break-up, as he has a particular fondness for her ex, but father and daughter seem to have reached an understanding and appreciation of each other that has come as both have matured. Clarissa is at loose ends as to her life's future plans--a situation that Frank understands but has the wisdom to realize she will have to work things out for herself.

Frank's relationship with his son, Paul, is far less amicable. Paul writes schmaltzy greeting card apothegms for Hallmark, dresses in odd clothing and speaks in a zany way, making connections and puns that are either nonsensical or unfunny. He was always an "odd" child and Frank clearly wants some sort of bond with him but has no idea how to make this happen.

In sum, while his life situation has changed since we last encountered him, Frank remains the introspective, insightful and brilliant guy he's always been, while adapting to his ever-changing life circumstances. As with the previous novels, the events take place over a major US holiday, in this case Thanksgiving. The year is 2000 and Frank seems to have a prescient awareness that life in America is changing. The election that year also hangs in the balance, and perhaps serves as a metaphor for Frank's own life as he faces the uncertainty of cancer and his marital estrangement.

As another reviewer noted, Frank is no ordinary realtor even in a profession known for attracting a melange of characters. He is not really Updike's Rabbit "everyman" given to prosaic banalities and simplistic reveries. Bascombe is a man of great perspicacity and intelligence who has found a tenuous but real contentment living his life in a fairly banal way.

I rated this book four stars because Ford's writing is superb and it is clear he is a writer in love with words who has devoted his life to telling stories with them. If he was not so verbally felicitous, I would probably have given this book a 3.5 star rating based on my feeling that in this work Ford's ending seems weak and a bit too fantastical. I was not quite as immersed in The Lay of the Land as I was reading The Sportswriter and, particularly, Independence Day. I'm not sure, though, if this is due to an attenuation in Ford's powers or in mine? The Lay of the Land is a worthwhile read, and though as other reviewers have noted it can be read as a "stand-alone" book, I recommend a reader new to Ford's Bascome books start with The Sportswriter and move on to Independence Day before tackling The Lay of the Land. The reader that does this will have a far greater understanding of Frank Bascombe and the characters that comprise his world.

[David Carrasco · Rating 5 out of 5]

Un viejo amigo que trabajó muchos años en el sector inmobiliario me contó una vez que lo más duro no era convencer a los clientes de que compraran una casa. Lo jodido era convencerse a sí mismo de que ese lugar, con todas sus imperfecciones, podía ser un hogar de verdad. Me habló de fachadas impecables que esconden grietas profundas y de esa sensación constante de mantener la apariencia para que nada se caiga, aunque por dentro todo esté un poco —o un mucho— roto.

Y esa idea me recordó a Frank Bascombe, que en Acción de Gracias ha llegado justo a ese punto en la vida donde ya no se trata de descubrir qué será de ti, sino de sobrevivir a lo que ya ha sido, con sus cicatrices y sus silencios.

Frank tiene cincuenta y cinco años, y todo parece estar en suspenso. Sigue vivo, sí, pero ya no del todo dentro de la vida. Observa más que actúa, recuerda más que espera, ironiza más que sueña. Esta solo, con una próstata maltrecha, un cáncer que amenaza con volver y demasiadas casas que enseñar en la costa de Nueva Jersey. Ha rehecho su vida tras el divorcio con una mujer que ahora le ha dejado también, sus hijos van por caminos propios y desconcertantes, y él se dedica a vender propiedades junto al mar mientras intenta que no se le note demasiado la derrota. Porque lo suyo ya no es la búsqueda de sentido, sino el mantenimiento de la fachada. La integridad estética de las cosas. Que nada se caiga. Que nada se note.

La novela se desarrolla durante los días previos al día de Acción de Gracias, esa fecha tan norteamericana en la que se celebra lo que se tiene… aunque uno ya no sepa muy bien qué es eso. Frank deambula por esos días con una mezcla de resignación y sarcasmo, enfrentándose a clientes neuróticos, vecinos insoportables o esas viejas amistades que reaparecen como fantasmas con los que no se ha hecho del todo las paces. Y en medio de todo, la sensación creciente de que la vida se ha ido llenando de cosas que no se pueden decir: resentimientos educados, heridas que no sangran, gestos de cortesía para no tener que mirar al abismo.

Esa complejidad, esa mezcla de lo explícito y lo oculto, es la que Ford refleja con maestría en su prosa: una escritura que parece casual, pero que está cargada de veneno lento; un fraseo elíptico, lleno de matices y pensamientos que se muerden la cola; una mirada que no juzga, pero tampoco consuela. Aquí todo se ha vuelto más frío, más escéptico, más clínico. Frank ya no es solo un hombre que intenta entenderse: es un hombre que ha decidido que entenderse no sirve de mucho. Lo importante es seguir. Y si se puede, no hacer el ridículo en el intento.

Este desapego y esa frialdad se reflejan también en el ritmo de la novela, que es lento, digresivo, envolvente. No hay una trama en el sentido convencional, sino una acumulación de gestos, escenas y pensamientos cruzados que dibujan un paisaje interior más que una historia lineal. La política aparece —es el año 2000, el del infame recuento Bush-Gore— pero no como tema, sino como atmósfera: esa incertidumbre generalizada, ese sentimiento de país suspendido en el aire, como Frank. El mundo exterior es un eco de su propio estado interior: caótico, contradictorio, desorientado.

Y en medio de ese desorden, Ford sigue retratando a Frank con esa claridad implacable que no busca dramatizarlo todo, pero tampoco dejar títere con cabeza. Aquí ya no hay margen para la nostalgia ni para la ingenuidad. Frank sabe que ha perdido cosas irreparables —la juventud, la pasión, cierta idea de futuro— y lo único que le queda es un resquicio de dignidad en el relato. La dignidad de quien acepta que no habrá redención, pero al menos puede ordenar los muebles del salón. Puede hacer que una casa parezca acogedora. Puede fingir, con la precisión de un buen agente inmobiliario, que todo está en su sitio.

Y quizá ahí esté la clave para entender en qué punto del camino nos encontramos. En comparación con El periodista deportivo , donde Frank aún jugaba a reinventarse, y con El Día de la Independencia , donde intentaba reconciliarse, Acción de Gracias es la novela del desencanto lúcido. La del hombre que ya ha visto cómo acaba todo y ha decidido seguir sonriendo en las fotos. No por cinismo, sino por resistencia. Porque si uno deja de posar, entonces sí que ha perdido del todo.

Y es precisamente ese desgaste callado, ese último esfuerzo por mantener el tipo, lo que convierte esta novela en la más incómoda de las tres. No ofrece ni el temblor existencial de la primera ni la melancolía esperanzada de la segunda. Aquí todo se ha endurecido. Frank ya no se tambalea: se ha convertido en piedra. Pero una piedra que piensa, que recuerda, que sufre en silencio. Y ese silencio, Ford lo convierte en herida.

Cuando uno termina Acción de Gracias no siente alivio ni tristeza. Siente reconocimiento. Porque esa es la fuerza de la saga Bascombe: no te sacude con giros argumentales ni clímax emocionales, sino que te va minando con verdades pequeñas, con frases que parecen inofensivas hasta que descubres que se te han quedado dentro. Esta tercera entrega no es la más brillante, quizá, pero sí la más descarnada. La que más se parece a la vida cuando ya no esperas nada nuevo, pero todavía no te resignas del todo.

Y eso es lo que hace que Frank Bascombe, incluso en su versión más cínica, siga siendo uno de los personajes más reales que ha dado la literatura norteamericana contemporánea. Porque en él no hay heroísmo ni épica. Solo alguien que intenta, a su manera, seguir siendo una persona razonable. Aunque ya no sepa muy bien qué significa eso.

[Steve · Rating 5 out of 5]

In this, the last in the trilogy, Frank is still the ever-thinking everyman, now age 55. He recently returned from the Mayo Clinic with less than full assurances, has seen his second wife leave him under odd circumstances, and has taken two steps forward and one step back (or is it one forward and two back?) with his first wife and their two grown kids. Frank has plenty to mull over. But then Ford offers up quite an assortment for readers to chew on, too.

1) Is there such a thing as a life too-well-examined? (Frank is as reflective as they come, but his insights are so interesting, we rarely begrudge him his self focus.)

2) Is the Permanent Period that Frank described himself to be in, "when few contrarian voices mutter doubts in your head, when the past seems more generic than specific, when life's a destination more than a journey and when who you feel yourself to be is pretty much how people will remember you once you've croaked -- in other words, when personal integration . . . is finally achieved," de rigueur around that age?

3) Is awareness of one’s own foibles a helpful step in dealing with them? (Frank is full of admissions like the following to fuel the debate: “It’s loony, of course, to think that by lowering expectations and keeping ambitions to a minimum we can ever avert the surprising and unwanted. Though the worst part, as I said, is that I’ve cluttered my immediate future with new-blooming dilemmas exactly like young people do when they’re feckless and thirty-three and too inexperienced to know better.”)

4) Are great writers like Ford just naturally better at dealing with deep, personal issues—things like Frank’s suppressed despair from a loss years ago? (This was a very effective scene made all the better by a rare show of emotion that Frank himself, in the first person account, didn’t see coming.)

5) Speaking of great writing, could this be Ford at the height of his powers? (All the prizes went to Independence Day, the second in the series, but I think the prose in this one is even better—-long and lush sentences, words flowing like music, acoustically pure.)

While I wouldn’t consider Frank a role model, he comes by his opinions honestly. Did I pay more attention because I’m getting close to his age? Is his search for meaning less clichéd for its lack of a spiritual basis? Does his contemplative inner life make him an island? He’s a complex character; these are questions to weigh with him in mind.

About two-thirds of the way into the book, it occurred to me that there was a lot Frank needed to wrap up before the trilogy’s end. I consciously slowed down so I wouldn’t miss any bit of how he did it. Five-star books like this give us data we should measure well to include in our eclectic samples.

[Nood-Lesse · Rating 3 out of 5]

La vita è tutta post operatoria, datti da fare e vivila

In “Sportswriter” (ambientato nel 1986) il weekend di Pasqua, ne “Il giorno dell’indipendenza” (ambientato nel 1998) quello del 4 luglio e ora ne “Lo stato delle cose” (ambientato nel 2000) quello del ringraziamento. 540 pagine per raccontare di tre giorni sarebbero troppe anche se si trattasse di quelli attigui al 2 settembre 1945, Ford però le imbottisce di ricordi, rimandi e descrizioni minuziose dilatando la narrazione con la sagacia abituale. Si procede a passo d’uomo nei frequenti spostamenti in auto, è innegabile che in alcuni tratti venga voglia di attaccarsi al clacson, sorpassare o invadere la corsia d’emergenza. Talvolta mi sembrava di sentire la voce dell’autore doppiata da Santamaria che mi diceva (in italiano) -è inutile che tu sia impaziente, ti sorbirai una storia molto americana, se devi sbuffare abbandona il libro, perché io qui ti parlerò di personaggi, dinamiche, sogni e paesaggi che più americani non si può e lo farò a modo mio, con i tempi che riterrò opportuni-
Siamo nel novembre del 2000, quando ancora non sapevamo chi sarebbe diventato il presidente degli USA (Bush o Gore?), prima che i voti in Florida venissero ricontati manualmente.
Ford usa la mazza da Baseball contro i repubblicani per tutto il libro, sulla presidenza contesa fa un’eccezione significativa:
Ho i miei pensieri rivolti ad una prognosi positiva e ad un buon inizio del secondo anno di questo millennio, che comprende una svolta nella presidenza del paese – una presidenza cui è difficile immaginare come sopravvivremo-, anche se il nuovo cerebroleso è poco peggio del suo clownesco avversario, essendo entrambi bamboccioni compiaciuti che non saprebbero dirigere nemmeno una mostra di fiori per signore, figurarsi la nostra unione fragile e riottosa.

Hobsbawn sostiene che il ‘900 sia iniziato nel 1914 con la prima guerra mondiale, io azzardo che il nuovo millennio sia iniziato nel 2001 con il crollo delle torri gemelle. Varrebbe la pena leggere il romanzo anche solo per constatare quale fosse lo stato delle cose dopo la bufala del Millenium Bug, dopo otto anni di presidenza Clinton (il risucchio non avrebbe potuto generare la prova). Il 2000 descritto da Ford sembra in tutto e per tutto una propaggine del millennio precedente (quello è stata). Come già nei primi due libri della saga, a narrare è Frank Bascombe, in prima persona. Frank ex giornalista sportivo, ora opera nel settore immobiliare in New Jersey. Attraverso clienti e collaboratori ci mostra un’America multietnica di cui individua il vero succo nella capacità della comunità di sopprimere la diversità, scoraggiare l’individualismo, punire l’esuberanza, fare in modo che un bene sia di tutti. Non siete d’accordo? Cercate di esser comprensivi, Frank sta lottando con un tumore e la sua seconda moglie l’ha abbandonato per tornare con il marito creduto morto per anni e invece vivo quanto il colonnello Chabert.
Lessi Sportsrwriter e ritenni conclusa la mia frequentazione con Frank Bascombe, invece successe che più passavano i mesi, più il libro anziché svanire sedimentava. Leggere Ford è faticoso almeno quanto è appagante averlo letto.

Colonna sonora
Eagles - Take It Easy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfeNh...

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Quelle che seguono sono considerazioni che hanno a che vedere con il libro in modo indiretto

Amazon mi avvertiva che ne erano rimasti un paio disponibili, non si trattava più di attendere inutilmente la versione e-book, rischiavo di non leggere lo stato delle cose, se non di seconda mano. Era ottobre, ruppi gli indugi. L’ultimo libro di carta che avevo letto era stato Il giorno dell'indipendenza, anche in quel caso, otto anni non erano bastati perché ne venisse realizzata la versione digitale.
È arrivato, l’ho messo sulla mensola, sapevo di dover aspettare che si allungassero le giornate. Io sono abituato a leggere ovunque, la retroilluminazione mi è utilissima, voi cartofili, come fate? La copertina mi piaceva (è un’alba o un tramonto?) ottima la scelta di associare l’arancio del cielo in fronte con l’arancio della quarta sul retro (Davide Perfetti e Daniele Verri). La mole invece mi scoraggiava, sapevo che non avrei potuto portarlo con me, che avrei dovuto leggerlo solo a casa, sul divano, quando fa luce presto e soprattutto non fa freddo. Ho scelto maggio, ho scelto la fine del lockdown, mi son procurato una penna nera e alla fine ho effettuato più di 100 sottolineature. Fra gli appunti presi sul cellulare, in un probabile momento di sconforto ho scritto:
Un libro breve e trascinante, o meglio un libro greve ed esasperante, ma solo a tratti, fra Barberino e Roncobilaccio.
Frank Bascombe non è riuscito a coinvolgermi quanto Harry Angstrom, non è altrettanto vulvacentrico. Frank cerca di controllarsi là dove Harry sbraca e raggiunge picchi di impudicizia di cui uno normalmente tenderebbe a vergognarsi anche al sicuro delle sue 4 pareti cerebrali. Il ricco coniglio è un flusso di coscienza con la punteggiatura, Harry è l'Ulisse americano che non si muove dalla sua Itaca (Brewer).
Sono andato a riaprire il giorno dell’indipendenza e vi ho trovato un (mio) appunto analogo:
La tensione erotica che sa imprimere Updike è speciale. La sua tensione è piacevole come un bel culo, quella di Ford sono un paio di sandali. Updike è un erotomane più raffinato di Miller, l’eros è il combustibile che alimenta il ricco coniglio, non certo il giorno dell’indipendenza.
Posologia:
Un Simenon ogni tre mesi, Ford meglio non più di un all'anno (specie se di carta).

[Leah · Rating 1 out of 5]

A digressive, long-winded, over-adjectived, frequently-hyphenated contemplation of the middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-of-the-road American...

Frank Bascombe sets out to have a meeting with his ex-wife. Five immensely tedious reading hours later and nearly a third of the way through the book, he hasn't yet got there. But he has digressed endlessly on those subjects that seem to obsess the white, middle-class, middle-aged American male – their health, the fact that they don't understand their children, their ex-wives (almost always plural), their sexual prowess or lack thereof, and the way the country is going to the dogs. I admit defeat – I can't take any more.

I feared right from the beginning that I was going to struggle with this book. Straight away, Ford gets into existential crisis mode with our narrator, having been diagnosed with prostate cancer, fearing that he is not ready to make his maker. Five hours later, I was unsympathetically thinking that he shouldn't worry – he has plenty of time left since he has the ability to turn every hour into a yawning eternity of angst. It took me four days to read that five hours' worth, because I had to keep stopping to remind myself that actually life isn't a dismal wasteland of pretentious emptiness – or at least, if it is, then I prefer my own pretentious emptiness to that of the tediously self-obsessed Frank Bascombe.

Each line of sparse and unrealistic dialogue is separated by two or three paragraphs analysing the one before and anticipating the one to come, while every noun is preceded by roughly eight, usually-hyphenated, increasingly-convoluted-and-contrived, unnecessary-except-to-fill-up-the-space adjectives...

...elderly, handsome, mustachioed, silver-haired, capitalist-looking gentleman in safari attire...

...a fetid, lightless, tin-sided back-country prison...

...a smirky, blond, slightly hard-edged, cigarette-smoking former Goucher girl... (what on earth is a Goucher girl? All those words and yet he still fails to communicate his meaning.)

And frankly, until I tried to read this book, I thought I was fairly fluent in American. After all, I coped with Twain's dialect in Huckleberry Finn and Steinbeck's in The Grapes of Wrath. But it appears not. Even my Kindle's built-in US-English dictionary didn't recognise more than half of the words I looked up. Has he invented this language? Or is it a kind of slang that was fashionable a decade or so ago and has now been already forgotten? Whatever, if it's comprehensible to Americans then that's what matters, of course, but I think I'd have to wait for the translation to become available. Though I'm in no rush for it...

...skint black hair...

...business lunch and afternoon plat-map confab...

...against every millage to extend services to the boondocks...

My life in Haddam always lacked the true resident's naive, relief-seeking socked-in-ed-ness(!!!)...

It's not just made-up words and jargon related to the property market that's a problem for the non-US reader, it's also his use of brands as a shortcut to description – fine if the brands mean something to the reader, otherwise irritating. And he constantly does the same with what I assume are cultural references...

He knows I bleed Michigan blue but doesn't really know what that means. (Nope, nor me.)

This means a living room the size of a fifties tract home. (So... tiny? Huge? Average?)

Mike frowns over at me. He doesn't know what Kalamazoo means, or why it would be so side-splittingly hilarious. (Again, nope – pity, because by that stage I could have done with a laugh.)

I'm not blaming the book for being 'too' American – why shouldn't it be? - but it did make it impossible for me to get into any kind of reading flow, since I was constantly either looking things up or trying to work out the meaning from the context. I'm quite sure that was a large part of why I found it such a stultifying read, but I'd have tolerated it if I'd felt the book was shedding light on anything that interested me. But I'm afraid the trials of the well-off educated American male don't, particularly. Shall I eat wheat-grain or indulge my wicked side with a 'furter? Let me list all the things I wear so you can understand my social position. I spent $2000 dollars on Thanksgiving lunch – cool, eh?

Buried amidst the heap of unnecessary wordiness, there is probably some insight on what it is to be middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-of-the-road and male in Millenium America, and there may even be bits that are funny. Sadly I lost my ability to laugh at around page 5, but am hoping it may return now that I've abandoned it. Is there a plot or a story? Not that I noticed, but maybe it becomes a gripping read once he gets to the meeting with his ex-wife, if he ever does. I guess I shall never know...

So how did it do on the Great American Novel Quest? *laughs hollowly* I think we all know the answer to that one...

www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com

[Teresa · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5 stars, if I could.

I've said many times I don't believe in the entity called the Great American Novel, but if I did, this book would qualify. It's wonderfully written (though exhausting at times with all the details, but trust the author, they all serve a purpose), chuckle-out loud funny at other times, and even heartbreaking in a non-sentimental way, while giving insights into man, a man, and the American way of life--warts and all.

I read the first two Bascombe novels before I joined GoodReads, so I'm not sure if I felt exactly the same way about those two novels as I did this one, but I'm guessing I did.

[Paul · Rating 5 out of 5]

OK. At the risk of sounding mawkish or, gasp, even worse, sentimental, I'd describe this book, along with the other two Frank Bascombe novels (less so The Sportswriter, even more so Independence Day) as: wonderful. I often tell people that reading them is like slipping into a warm bath or, more appropriately, a warm parka. They're comforting. Which is not to say they're light or feel-good. They're books you don't ever want to end (though if they didn't they would become quite tiresome, due to the narrator's proclivity for prolix analyzing).

Frank Bascombe is someone in whom you immediately place a lot of trust and respect, someone whose creator you really, really wish you could meet and have dinner with, not only because you assume he is quite similar to his character. (If you find yourself wishing writers like David Foster Wallace et al were your buddies while reading their work, Ford is more the sort of guy you wish were your dad.) Only you start to realize that all his (Frank's) philosophical surety is merely stuff he's concocted to cope with the fact that he can't seem to form any real connection with anyone and to convince himself that it's, in fact, better to just be self-reliant and, ultimately, alone. This doesn't work for anyone, though, and hence the novel(s)'s conflict. There's no real plot per se, aside from the events that take place over the course of three days (which, in the space of 485 pages of small type, is not much time), so the novel is comprised mostly of the informed, intelligent, etc. etc., yet flawed-because-they're-human musings of a man who's experienced whatever he's experienced up to this point.

The novel is suffused quite heavily with death. Someone told me they, after reading The Sportswriter, didn't like Richard Ford because he was "too depressing," which I simply don't buy, but I have found myself thinking twice about suggesting a book so death-obsessed to people like my dad or my soon-to-be father-in-law (who's name is also Frank). For me, the writing is, again, simply wonderful, a warm parka on a chilly night, so I couldn't feel anything but elated while reading it, but that's me.

There aren't any structural or linguistic tricks or gimmicks in this or any of the three novels, which makes them even more spectacular and inspirational (to a writer). It's extremely unpretentious, straightforward, and honest. The words have nothing but nothing to hide behind. I can't really recommend these three novels highly enough. I expected this book to last me through the Thanksgiving holiday (during which, coincidentally, it happened to take place), but I really just couldn't put it down and ended up, in a way unfortunately, reading the whole thing in a week.

If you find yourself dying slowly and painfully, reach for a copy of this or any of the Bascombe novels (if they're all within reach and you don't think you've got enough time to read the three, go for Independence Day). You'll realize (or, actually, you won't realize) about three or four pages in that you've forgotten completely about your imminent death, and instead will just be sitting there rapt and in absolute literary bliss. I'm not really joking.

If you're not dying, though, probably you should read the books anyway, and soon like now, because they're shit-hot good, and why wait.

[Pris robichaud · Rating 5 out of 5]

Bittersweet Downshift In Life Expectations , 13 Nov 2006


"This novel showcases many of Mr. Ford's gifts: his ability to capture the nubby, variegated texture of ordinary life; his unerring ear for how ordinary people talk; his talent for conjuring up subsidiary characters with a handful of brilliant brushstrokes.
MICHIKO KAKUTANI, New York Times

Frank Bascombe, real estate manager, aka sportswriter and novelist is in the prime of his life. He is on what he describes as ""the permanent phase" of his life, the period when life "starts to look like a destination rather than a journey". He is 55, his second wife has left him for her first husband, he has prostate cancer, his daughter is moving from her lesbian phase to what exactly? His son has a girlfriend and wants a relationship with his father. But Paul, the son is overbearing and what was it that Frank did not give him? His first wife, Anne, calls and wants to start another relationship, But, do they really love each other? These and other life problems all emerge within three days of this 500 page novel.

These three days take place in 2000. I began to see the irony of Frank's thinking his life is going down a permanent road, when the election of Bush has just taken place. There is no peace in America or in Frank's life at this time. We find that events and tragedy's spring up around us at all times. Frank realizes he has fear for 'The Lay of the Land' in 2000, and, as we all know 9/11/2001 is just around the corner. We have the luxury of looking back as Frank tells his story.

Some parts of this novel are too limiting, the explosion in the local hospital and one of the police officers must question him as a suspect but that never occurs. His first wife has but a small part in the novel and it is confusing, but I wonder if her part is to explain that we are all looking for love and may be confused about where we will find it. The next door neighbors are strange and the final chapter leaves no explanation. people come and people go in these three days and we learn allot. Frank is a man that we feel some sympathy for but do we really like him? Yes, he has his faults, and I see some of mine in him. This is a book to ponder and re-read. Frank is wondering what his last days will be like, he wonders as he is ordering a complete Thanksgiving dinner that is organic and elite and is it edible.

I consider this book to be one of the best of the year. Like Cormac McCarthy's book, 'The Road' the other great book of this year. 'Lay of the Land' looks back to look at what has happened while "The Road" looks to the future so we can contemplate where we are.

"Yet while the melancholy settles in deeper this time, Bascombe remains what he always has been: a funny, kind and gentle man, a possessor, as one critic observed, of the "mysteriousness of the agreeable, nice person, harder to describe than the rake, miser or snob". Which is to say, he is not merely pleasant. Ford has kept Emerson in mind throughout: "Your goodness must have some edge to it -- else it is none." Bascombe is willing to speak difficult truths and does so; but he doesn't enjoy it and says so. "
BRIAN McCLUSKEY, The Scotsman

Highly, Highly Recommended. prisrob 11-13-06

[Agnes · Rating 4 out of 5]

Confesso che ho avuto , a momenti, la tentazione di abbandonarlo; ma non riuscivo a smettere di leggerlo . Narrare tre giornate in 540 pagine scritte in caratteri piccoli ( ed.economica Feltrinelli) è comunque un grande merito per Ford - e per chi lo legge.
Ogni volta che pensavo di abbandonarlo , però, trovavo una frase, una considerazione che sottolineavo e mettevo un post-it alla pagina e ……proseguivo.
Più conosco Ford - scoperto tardi- più mi piace.
Ho già pronto il quarto : Tutto potrebbe andare molto peggio e, da ordinare , il secondo : Il giorno dell'Indipendenza e poi i suoi racconti Scusate il disturbo : direi un bel programma di lettura…

[Frabe · Rating 5 out of 5]

Focalizzando lo sguardo su tre giorni dell’anno 2000, Richard Ford descrive lo stato delle cose che riguardano il suo Frank Bascombe, già protagonista di “Sportswriter” (il bel romanzo dove conobbi Ford e Bascombe) e di “Il giorno dell’Indipendenza”.
Cinquantacinque anni, immobiliarista, Frank è stato lasciato dalla seconda moglie (anche la prima se n’era andata a suo tempo): ora vive solo (i due figli sono grandi, fanno la loro vita), con la compagnia di un cancro alla prostata fresco di diagnosi. È il solito pragmatico, Frank, non sta tanto a rimuginare sulle cause delle cose che gli capitano: prende atto e si adegua, come ha sempre fatto. Ma – ecco l’elemento nuovo – capisce d’aver ecceduto troppo, e per troppo tempo, nella rimozione delle cose negative che lo hanno coinvolto, e di doverle elaborare, invece, digerire. E dunque prende avvio una fase nuova, più matura, per Frank Bascombe, quella dell’accettazione: “con le cose, belle o amare che siano, bisogna farci i conti”, nella “consapevolezza che alla vita non si può sfuggire e che bisogna affrontarla in ogni sua parte”. E di cose gliene capitano davvero tante, in tre giorni: Frank Bascombe - anche perché buono, pure troppo - barcolla, ma ritrova alla fine un nuovo equilibrio.
Ne sono felice (è un amico, ormai). "Lo stato delle cose": grande romanzo!

[David · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is the third in the series but can definitely be read as a standalone. It’s light on plot so the pacing leaves a lot to be desired, but it’s heavy on character development. This kept me going because you need something to pull you along for 496 pages.

Interestingly, I learned afterwards that the author is dyslexic so he writes like he reads - one sentence at a time. A long and slow story isn’t my favorite combination, but rounding up to 4 stars for the subtle humor interspersed throughout.

[Andy · Rating 4 out of 5]

So we come to the third (and seemingly final) installment of Richard Ford's brilliant portrait of contemporary American adult life, as seen through the eyes of Ford's meditative everyman, Frank Bascombe.

I have spent a great deal of time now with Mr. Bascombe over the past few years, and in book time, we've passed nearly 20 years together. Here, I slipped so easily back into reading Frank's voice, it was like I was passing time with an old college buddy - someone I know, but only see every few years now. As in all three of the Bascombe novels, Frank's voice is just so damn absorbing, it's hard to imagine seeing the ever-expanding New Jersey suburban landscape through another set of eyes. Frank knows this place, and you never for a moment question his authority. Sometimes, he knows his surroundings so well, you find yourself saying, "ok, Frank, get on with it. We know that cafeteria serves some good meatloaf, but there's more story to tell..." He's also a great observer of character; Frank has the ability to pinpoint what makes someone unique in a recognizable, American-sounding way ('he looked like an old Division III linebacker' e.g.). If Frank Bascombe were a character in every single book I read, I would be happy. He's someone who, despite his propensity for pervasive self-analysis, is comforting. He's sure of himself and aware of the influence he has on the people around him.

Now, my criticisms have a lot to do with putting "The Lay of the Land" in the context of the other novels in this trilogy. The story here is the least engaging of the three, in my mind. Frank has entered what he dubs the "Permanent Period" of his life (which is a little restrictive, since we've already spent 450 pages with him undergoing his "Existence Period" in Independence Day.) He defines the Permanent Period rather broadly as life running a steady course until death intervenes. But Frank undergoes such enormous upheaval in these pages, it was hard for me to reconcile him having a "permanent" view of himself - his second wife leaves him, he develops cancer, his first wife expresses a desire to rekindle their decades old marriage and all the while he is trying to understand the strange adults that his two children are turning into. At points, Frank recognizes the tenuousness of the Permanent Period, but he never renounces it. In the end, I didn't buy into it the way I did the Existence Period.

My other big issue is that Frank is still plying his trade as a New Jersey real estate jockey. Sure, he's moved out to the Shore, away from the staid suburban life of Haddam, so the climate's a little different, but the volume of observations on real estate, housing, finance etc. etc., didn't stray far enough from the realm of the previous book to keep my interest from flagging at times. The book is structured around Frank driving all over the state, so there are times when he just doesn't get places fast enough. This was especially true at the beginning of the novel, which I thought was a real snoozer. The story gains a lot of speed when he hits on his family (esp. when wife 1 reappears, and we enter the backstory of wife 2's disappearance), and for the most part carries through to the end. The pacing, in places, felt off. The Bascombe novels have successively gained weight, which may reflect real life complexities, but does not serve the fictional purpose ideally, in my mind.

All in all, though, I love spending time with this character, hearing his commentary on contemporary American family life. He is wise without being overbearing, he is emotional without being false, and he is aware of his place in history, in league with so many of his fellow Americans, trying to hold it together in the face of life's continual adversity, waiting for those bursts of happiness along the way that make it worthwhile.

[Sarah · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was recommended by Lex Runciman, my English professor, in his blog Far Corner Reader, so it's not a huge surprise that it reminds me of the types of books that I often read in college: the kind that I don't get as much out of unless I'm reading it with twenty other people and having thrice-weekly discussions. I'm sure that there's some sort of theme here about growing old, life in America, and stuff like that, but to me, it's just the story of Frank Bascombe, a divorced prostate-cancer-surviving real estate agent whose second wife has left him for her ex-husband (previously assumed dead). Lex said it best, "Add in a Tibetan business colleague, some random vandalism of Frank’s car, a real estate deal that Frank perversely sours, an explosion at a hospital (the same one where Frank’s son died years earlier), a set of nasty neighbors, some gun shots at close range, and Thanksgiving begins to look like a holiday from hell."

[Elina · Rating 5 out of 5]

Καταπληκτικό αν και δεν πρέπει να πολυσυμπαθεί τους Έλληνες. Περισσότερες λεπτομέρειες αργότερα...

[Kathleen · Rating 4 out of 5]

Richard Ford returns to the story of Frank Bascombe, hero of The Sportswriter and Independence Day, here in The Lay of the Land. Although there is more action than in the previous two, this is still primary a stream of consciousness rumination straight from Frank's brain to the page.

Frank is 55 now, in the part of life he refers to as "The Permanent Period," where you are sailing into the sunset, if not smoothly, then at least somewhat secure in the knowledge that you cannot mess everything up anymore. Frank's permanent period is not going so well right at the moment, as his second wife, Sally just left him for her presumed dead for decades first husband, his son, Paul, seems to hate him, his daughter, Clarissa, is a hovering presence and his prostate is full of radioactive bbs inserted to attempt to deal with his recently diagnosed cancer.

Still, Frank rambles on, considering every little detail at length and sharing every bit of it. This sounds dull. It's not. The writing is out of this world. I especially loved the descriptions of people (here's one - A great potato-schnozzed, coat-hangar-shouldered galoot who years ago played defensive end for the Scarlet Knights, has soulful mahogany eyes deep set in bony blue-shaded sockets and always smells like a cigarette).

I enjoyed every minute spent with Frank in all three novels. You can imagine hanging out with Frank and just stroking his hair as he went on and on. Yeah, maybe you'd zone out once in a while, if he were in person, but when you came back, he'd still be talking and the words would still be beautiful.

[Jessica]

I liked The Sportswriter a lot and loved Independence Day, but I'm putting The Lay of the Land aside for now. I just made it to page 60 and definitely could've kept going, but there are so many other books I want to read right now and I wasn't having enough fun with it to feel like putting them off for this.

The thing is, in this one Frank Bascombe kind of seemed like a dick. I mean more than usual. Part of what was interesting to me in the first two was his attitudes about race and politics, but somehow his views seemed less interesting and more tiresome in the year 2000. Also just more generally, many attributes of his character seemed to have calcified in the way that I guess we all do when we get old.

I do love Richard Ford's writing and I want to keep up with good old Frank, after all that we've been through together. So I'm sure I'll be back... maybe around next Thanksgiving.

[Patrick Collins · Rating 2 out of 5]

Note to authors: Please don't have a book with pages of introspective character thought"discussing" the calm post-cancer mind, ruminating on relationship, and even name-dropping philosophers alongside the WTF actions of somebody who has silly old-man brawls with fellow bar patrons, drops profanity in incogruous circumstances, and pretty much makes some of the most inane decisions of any "thoughtful" character in my reading experience. Lots of pages - lots of disconnect.

[Andrés Cabrera · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Todos los barcos, según dicen, buscan un sitio para hundirse. Yo buscaba uno para flotar. Seguramente sabiendo que existía. Quizás se sabe siempre"..Richard Ford, Acción de Gracias. P. 177.

"Puede que el pasado no sea el mejor sitio adonde lanzar la mirada cuando fallan las palabras" . Richard Ford.

Retomo la serie de los libros de Bascombe tras varios años de descanso. Si la memoria no me falla, la última vez que me enfrenté a la obra de Ford fue hace más o menos unos diez años. Ahora, ya un tanto más afectado por la inercia de los días y las cavilaciones del presente (y, por qué no, el temor a un futuro desgraciado), sus palabras calan un poco más produndo. Además de la edad, puede que el confinamiento y la vida triste que se lleva ahora contribuya a que lo expuesto por Bascombe resulte más llamativo. Porque, en efecto, el protagonista de Ford comprende qué es vivir bajo la rutina y la naturaleza muerta: su vida, rodeada de ruinas, vislumbra el pasado para detenerse y volver la mirada al presente, pero en eso mucho se pierde: la extrañeza ante la experiencia cercana y la modorra y tranquilidad que produce el reflejo del pasado, hace que el futuro sea una meseta llena de supermercados, leves sobresaltos, y casas que un día se tiñen en el lienzo para luego extinguirse.

Ford bien comprende que nuestra forma de vida actual es desechable, prescindible: nos movemos en una marea de objetos cuya composición está llamada a degradarse prontamente. De allí que la llanura que transita su personaje esté plagada de plástico, hormigón y neón desteñido; cuando no madera aglomerada. En medio de ello, la vida se va extinguiendo: todo se pudre para dar paso a algo más. Y eso es la vida, y eso, eso pareciera querer ver Bascombe en su trajinar por este mundo.

No sé qué será, pero veo en Ford un escritor genuino que no llega a afectarme con sus reflexiones. Tal vez lo siento demasiado distante, afincado en ese yermo que no reconozco como mío (Estados Unidos y su esplendoroso y cada vez más deshueto sueño). Eso sí, no desconozco su mérito como narrador: es difícil tejer reflexiones y descripciones tan nítidas como las que aquel sabe construir. Ahora bien, me quedo como si acabase de ver un Hopper serigrafiado, una suerte de réplica sin aura. Eso, y no mucho más, me provoca Ford.

[Susan · Rating 2 out of 5]

Richard Ford is a victim of his own success. This book needed the hand of a good editor, and I suspect no one in Ford's orbit had the courage to tell him to cut mercilessly and just "get on with it." The slow pace is encumbered by excessive detail, long clause-upon-clause paragraphs, and repetitive musings by a tedious Frank Bascombe. Ford does an excellent job of fleshing out the time and place (roughly the last quarter of the 20th century, wherein New Jersey capitulated to suburban sprawl and rapacious realtors). Bascombe used to tell his writing students, "If you can say it, it can happen," and maybe that's Ford speaking through his character. Not for this reader. The writer's job is to make it believable, not just to make it happen. I can't warm to Ford's style, which includes a particularly grating use of end-of-sentence negation: "Money says this guy's Italian, though he's all spruced up and could be Greek, which wouldn't be better." "It's where I'd buy in if I moved back -- which I won't." "And even though I have officially accepted it, I will never truly get over it if I live to a hundred -- which I won't." "It [the prostate:] is a gland, by the way, unlike your dick, which is often said to be, but isn't." And even though I don't have a dick I still wanted to like this book after reading so much praise for the work of the Pulitzer Prize winning author -- but I didn't.

[Phil · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love Richard Ford, and the Frank Bascombe trilogy should be required reading for anyone, particularly any man, born from 1940-1980. It hits home in a most recognizable way. It hits -- and pulls a punch -- in the exact same way our fathers and brothers, uncles and friends of the several-generations-older-than-Generation-Y probably do: emotionally, professionally, romantically, and parentally.

And Ford's writing is as fluid as a poet's, as ever.

Some people compare him to Raymond Carver, or John Updike, whom I love... and it feels similar at times... but isn't quite the same.

I love Carver but rarely recognize myself in his stories, and hope my life doesn't go that far off track, as his characters always seem to. Updike is wonderful, and the Bascombe series is Rabbit-like, though I find the Rabbit novels more dated, and pigeon-holy, and slightly less recognizable. (while great). Bascombe is your dad, your parents' best friend, your high school baseball coach, or the neighbor whose window you've broken with a baseball. You know him well.

If you haven't read these novels, don't start with this one. Read (the PEN/Faulkner finalist) "The Sportswriter" first, then the (PEN/Faulkner and Pulitzer Prize winning) "Independence Day" and only then read the (National Book Critics Circle Award winning) "The Lay of the Land."

[Alicia · Rating 1 out of 5]

I hate it when I read a book and can appreciate the good points of it but not really be able to identify with the characters or lose myself in the book. Richard Ford is a technically gifted author with a huge following of appreciative readers but I have never been that enamoured of his writing. Perhaps it is because he so often explores "boomer angst" and I cannot really relate to it.

In this novel, realtor Frank Bascombe, previously appearing in Independence Day and The Sportswriter, finds that his wife has left him, his children's lives are in upheaval and he has been diagnosed with cancer. Sprinkled with quirky characters, this novel explores what it means to confront your own mortality and make peace with it. This was an exceptionally well-done novel that does have humorous moments and clearly shows the affection the main character feels for his friends and family. It also clearly shows the impact the last election had on large numbers of Americans

[Trina · Rating 5 out of 5]

As I read this extremely long novel about two days in the life of a 55-year old man with health and marital problems, what kept me going was not the story, which is contorted like all our everydays are contorted, but the writing, which is masterful and as a result effortless and luminous. I am in awe of Richard Ford's skill. Still, I wouldn't recommend this to too many people, because I don't know how much my friends want to read musings on the late periods of one's life, chronic illness, death in sight, and how to adapt these changes to all the strange, confusing people we are supposed to love.

[Ron · Rating 5 out of 5]

One of my dearest friends fell sick about a year ago just before we were scheduled to go up for our yearly Memorial Day visit. Since he wasn't feeling well, we decided to hold off for a bit and maybe come up later in the summer, but by later in the summer, he had discovered that he had cancer and decided it would be best to wait until he had gone through chemo. He got through chemo and after a bit got the prognosis, which was that he had mabye two years left if he went throught another round of chemo--about a year if not. This was around late March or early April and we were still discussing us maybe coming up Memorial Day this year. Michael said that he sas tired, but woulld probably be up to a visit, but "lets wait a few weeks and see how I'm doing".

During March-April, I was reading this book, in which the main character has just disovered he has prostate cancer, has had the little radioactive pellets inserted, but doesnt know yet if they "took". Much of the book deals with his observations about his feelings of his current situation, including many of the expected comments on our mortality etc. I kept wanting to ask Michael if he had read the book, but wasnt sure if I wanted to spend too mcuh time on that subject as our conversations were pretty infrequent and he seemed to want to focus on lighter issues so I let hime take the lead most of the time and reveal to me as much or as little as he wanted about his cancer.

Two or three weeks went by after that conversation about maybe coming up, when I got a call from Diana, his ex. She was calling from Michael's phone, so I naturally thought it was him, but instead it was news that Michael had died about a week before--apparently just after we talked, he plummeted and was gone in a couple of weeks.

We went to his place for a memorial obvservation this last weekend (it's on Vancouver Island, so it was a very rushed and tiring trip which we made up and back in jsut over 48 hours--a trip I''ll always be grateful we made.

While in his living room I perused his bookshelvees as I always have done, and, sure enough, there was this book. His name and the date Jan 2010; about the time he first started feeling ill. I don't know if he ever readd it, but I suspect he did and wish I had brought up the subject so we could have had one last bit of book-talk.

So, on top of being a really good book, I have this other attachment to it...

[Julia · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'd like to buy Richard Ford a drink. In honor of Frank Bascombe, I'd like to make it an old fashioned.

I first read Richard Ford when I was far too young to appreciate him--I think I stumbled across "Independence Day" in late elementary school. I was glad to revisit him at the beach this summer.

In terms of logistics, "The Lay of the Land" is the third in a set of novels about Frank Bascombe's life (Who is he, you ask? A modern-day self-deprecating Renaissance man of a sort). The first two, "The Sportswriter" and "Independence Day" (which won a Pulitzer), will go down in family history as the only two works of fiction that both of my parents have read in my entire years of being cognizant of their reading habits. So Ford's got pretty wide appeal.

The end of the trilogy is...sweeping in its attention to the minutiae of life, and our idiosyncratic and fumbling reactions to said minutiae. Which I mean in a completely excellent way. Easy description of the book's many & subtle virtues is escaping me at this point, but suffice it to say that I really, really liked it.

[Michael Backus · Rating 4 out of 5]

A hard book to explain or even recommend in some ways, I actively disliked it for the first 50 pages, but once I settled into the rhythms of it, I came around to the idea that this is the most stylistically over the top naturalistic book I've ever read. Ford details every thought and action of Frank Bascombe for three days and it's often very funny, very acerbic and always stunningly written. The music might sometimes seem convoluted or even grating, but once you settle into it, you realize how beautiful that music is. I don't think it's a perfect book but I do think it's a great one.

[Abby · Rating 4 out of 5]

The third of Richard Ford's wonderful books about Frank Bascombe, former sportswriter and current New Jersey realtor extraordinaire. (The first two were "The Sportswriter" and "Independence Day.") No one captures the humor and pathos of everyday life better than Ford, with an amazing amount of detail packed into a story that unfolds over just 3 days. As a byproduct, I now know more about southern NJ than I ever thought I wanted to know.

[Saleh MoonWalker · Rating 3 out of 5]

Onvan : The Lay of the Land - Nevisande : Richard Ford - ISBN : 679454683 - ISBN13 : 9780679454687 - Dar 496 Safhe - Saal e Chap : 2006