The long-awaited novel by master Stephen Dixon, twice a finalist for the National Book Award, I. is a searingly powerful and seemingly autobiographical novel in the form of linked stories that explores the limitations of memory and the frustrations of the narrator's life, as he cares for his two daughters and his handicapped wife, whose condition worsens as the narrator struggles with his own sense of mortality. I. is hardcover, with cover art by acclaimed graphic novelist Dan Clowes.
A concatenation of insular narratives reworking moments in the narrator I.’s life, bookended by two poignant stories unflinchingly limning life with a chronically ill partner. The hilarious piece ‘Author’ is also a terrific slapdown of the absurdity of literary life. Vintage Dixon.
Stephen Dixon is the most accessible difficult writer that I've read. He uses a simple vocabulary. The syntax is straightforward. He gets a little weird with timelines though, re-inventing a story sentence by sentence. In this, Dixon is the most like Samuel Beckett of and contemporary writer that I know. He doesn't really let his characters progress. They're stuck in their head worrying about possible eventualities, imagining what could happen, not necessarily what did happen. Also, like Beckett, his stories are simultaneously very sad and very, very funny.
In "I." we get a series of interlocking stories about a man caring for his ailing wife. Her disease is a debilitating one and as time progresses he must do and increasing number of mundane things for her: helping her into the shower, to bathe herself, to use the toilet. It seems to be a lot for him. He is prone to fits of rage that are more about his lot in life than directed and his wife and children. It's just that they happen to be around and end up collateral damage to his irrational anger.
"I." is bound as a novel, but because it's a novel composed of individual stories there's no plot or linear flow. Some stories seem to contradict each other. The wonderful opening story describes our main character (only known as I.) meeting a woman who we assume to be his wife. But the story is more about I.'s imagination, what he hopes might happen in his wildest fantasies. Dixon lets I's fantasies roam free. But even they are tinged with sadness.
The final story paints a different picture of I's meeting with his wife. But even after reading it we're unsure of what really happened to arrive at a meeting and a courtship. I. alternately imagines being introduced to her, gaining her name surreptitiously, orchestrating a chance meeting the next day, arresting her on the stairs, walking her home, hailing her a cab, etc. It's in these contradictory sentences that Dixon is most like Beckett. He's letting language cancel itself out. I. moves forward slowly, by inches. Some of his imaginings are funny, absurd. But Dixon has total control over what's happening.
Dixon's experiments with form and narrative are unusual and compelling, but also strangely tedious to read. I find myself thinking about his stories later, but sometimes feeling frustrated while I read them.
I was torn between three and four stars for this one. I suppose I focus on the good bits, or else I'm too soft as a reviewer.
There are some beautiful moments, and some brutally honest, difficult yet important moments, but there are also some parts which didn't sit right with me. Maybe the scenario was so painful I had an inherent aversion to it, or maybe there was some degree of warmth lacking from the protagonist's character. That said, choosing to remain in that position said a lot about him, and I guess it opens up a whole debate about love and its consequences, and about how people treat one another when stretched to the limit but physical and mental suffering.
Although the first-person form seems exciting and interesting at first, it eventually becomes tiring -as does the endless self-pity and 'what if' scenario's that the narrator seems to dream up about pretty much every single woman he has ever met. I probably would have liked this a lot if I'd read a few of the chapters as short stories in literary journals -they're well-crafted and insightful and sometimes heartbreaking- but as a book it's all just a bit too much.
Every writer hides behind something, and the hero of I., Stephen Dixon’s novel built upon progressively revelatory blocks of self-lacerating thought, operates behind one of the least-obscuring artifices I’ve seen in fiction. Deep-dish neurosis, multidimensional doubt, stifling complexities of anticipation and runaway contingency planning for every fundamental interaction with another human being are narrative traits that expose everything. I. might be terrifying in its precise, inescapable capture of the cerebral sink, except that absolute self-absorption appears to be just another flawed and certain route to the ultimate reaches of human realization.
I started reading this book recently, but I'm just in far too melancholy a mood to be reading something this laden with emotion. I think, based on the aesthetic principles of distance, that I can only really enjoy a melancholic book when I'm feeling whimsical. I suppose the point of a book that drips with feeling is that you should be as close to it as you possibly can, but I really want to enjoy reading. I don't want to find myself shouldering someone else's burden along with my own. I love books.
This is the second time I've read this novel. The only other book I've read more than once is Irving's Garp.
The book was just as good the second time as the first. Dixon has a flair with words, both witty and morose and mundane. His easy to read stream of consciousness style belies the difficulty with which it was probably written. He makes the act of reading a novel feel similar to the act of writing one, but much more fun.
A great way to begin reading Dixon, a writer's writer. Accessible, autobiographically tinged novel-in-stories. Gutsy moves, the story called "The Switch" is difficult to read. But the story, "Again," is one of the more memorable accounts of enduring loves I've read, touching and understated.
Dixon is an important writer that many people haven't yet discovered. Start with this one, move to "End of I." The go through his stories and novels.
Another guy wrote Deep-dish neurosis, multidimensional doubt, stifling complexities of anticipation and runaway contingency planning for every fundamental interaction with another human being are narrative traits that expose everything.
Which maybe thats just how I think but I found it massively tedious. Part of the issue is that to keep myself interested in my own runaway inner monologue I try to phrase things to myself interestingly? To frame things in the most interesting way possible like I'm telling someone a story?
He doesn't do that its just the weirdest flattest affect language. Its how a scifi movie would indicate someone is a pod person, by letting any single line at random from this 300 page book slip.
And its not just his inner monologue, other people donit too, although the entire book is in his head so perhaps thats the excuse. When his future wife in the last chapter in one of the many revisions of how they met mentions the "food aromas" at the party are going to make her hungry, I was like ok, fuck this.
No one talks this way so it has to be a deliberate choice I just dont see the point in having everyone talk like replicants to each other is. Though he is a boomer, he keeps saying 'high' or 'tight' when he means to say 'drunk' which hasnt been common since like 1955. So maybe thats how a certain cohort of them spoke?
Fascinerend, maar soms ook best taai. Enkele hoofdstukken hadden iets korter gekund, maar het uitspinnen is deel van het volledigheidsstreven. Blij dat ik na jaren uit de kast heb gehaald.
There is a lot I enjoyed about this book, but my review will ultimately not be that good. The key quirk, of writing in endless format with no paragraph breaks, makes total sense in the confines of the narrative, and it's often used in really interesting ways as the narrator writes and re-writes and over-analyzes his own story. But it also makes it a really tough read, and obscures much of the humor and emotion in the narrative.
On the other hand, the story is full of sweet moments of real human tenderness, and some really funny stuff about obsessiveness and analysis. I really enjoyed much of it, but I had to fight to do so the entire time.
This book was my introduction to the work of Stephen Dixon. I'd rather read a cheap Tom Clancy rag than suffer through another idiotic experiment with voice changes and tense changes.
I do recommend skipping everything but for one beautiful chapter titled The Switch which is an unflinchingly honest description of taking care of a dying spouse.
Then if you really want to immerse yourself in some meaningless experimentation check out the chapter titled I. I dunno. Maybe its tongue in cheek...but it sucks...really...sucks. I'm getting angry about it again. Damn.
Painful and unpleasant, almost unbearable to read, I stopped 30 pages from the end (this is exceedingly rare). The form is interesting enough, a novel written as a series of unfinished short pieces by the protagonist, but ends up seeming sloppy and incomplete. The biggest problem it the subject: unprocessed, bitter anger at people enduring chronic, debilitating disease. If this book doesn't make you uncomfortable, you don't how to read.
My mother just recently asked me if I had ever read this author. A surreal experience to say the least since this is one of my favourite books by one of my favourite authors. She purchased it cheap from the McSweeney's garage sale (I am not sure if this is still going on but if it is check it out, lots of great titles for very very cheap). If you've never experienced a Stephen Dixon story I think it's time you begun. No one tells a story the way he does.
Gosh, I really wanted to like this better, as I can relate to I.'s over-introspectiveness. It started off pretty strong, but after the first third, it leveled off and was mostly just kind of 'there'. Didn't bore me to tears, but it didn't move me too often until the long final chapter, where it redeemed itself a little bit.
I love and hate this book. I will never hate anything he writes, even though he seemingly focuses on one set of circumstances a bit too much for my taste.
This one feels like short stories, but it is time-stilted novel. Get Old Friends or Sleep before this one. The artwork is awesome. Don't let the McSweeny's tag encourage or scare you. He has little to do with hipness or youth.
i enjoyed the repetition when done well; horrible when it wasn't---
the sense of narration displacement was done well in a good many parts but then he had to point it out and make it a, "Look at how clever I'm being!" gimmick.
it was disjointed; short stories with some overlap...
the last story saved it from being two stars or less.
its like no its not like yes he did that to me no break my heart yes i went for a long walk then my dog died who cares no i do but no this is depressing only if you think this is all real but it is who knows im gonna die unappreciated except by the cognoscenti i hate that word cognoscenti
Seriously a bummer. The first half of the book was sad, boring, frustrating and lethargicly paced. The second half picked up a good bit, but not enough to redeem the time I wasted listening to its sad-sack, insecure narrator. Beautiful binding, though. Looks great on my nightstand.
This character dwelled on things way too long for his and MY own good. He reminded me of myself times one hundred. i could barely take it anymore. This is definitely a unique and interesting story, and well written. I just couldn't get into it.
per me sono racconti che compongono un romanzo: ce ne sono alcuni più interessanti e altri meno. sono spesso variazioni sullo stesso tema e il fatto che non sempre siano riuscite appesantisce un po' la struttura del tutto.
okay. so i added the fourth star because of the cutout on the cover. the book itself is a thing of beauty. it's a nice heavy cloth that feels good in your hands.