The Huge Season

by Wright Morris

In this novel, set in 1952 but intermingling the past and present, the protagonist reviews the effects of the Jazz Age on himself and a friend, recalling their exploits in college, in Paris, and in love. The result is the picture of a generation.

306 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1954

About the author

Wright Marion Morris was an American novelist, photographer, and essayist. He is known for his portrayals of the people and artifacts of the Great Plains in words and pictures, as well as for experimenting with narrative forms.
Morris won the National Book Award for The Field of Vision in 1956. His final novel, Plains Song won the American Book Award in 1981.

Reviews

[Wherefore Art Thou · Rating 2 out of 5]

“A picture of a generation” as stated in nearly every blurb of this book is more than a bit much, considering the subjects of the book were almost primarily all boring, white, academic, comfortably financed college kids (though, what do I know, maybe all the non-college educated women and black people were also writing redundant term papers).

It is instead more of a time-capsule, as Morris spends the entirety of the book describing everything (page 133 is dedicated entirely to describing one of the fellow’s legs) so he happens upon a lot of period-specific indicators. Wooden tennis rackets, glass bottles inset in straw, telephone booth etiquette, university culture, oil in cans, antiquated medical care, olive oil used in both the hair and skin, the shoes they all wore (lots of talk about shoes) firmly place the book in time. And that was interesting. Just wish there was more of a… plot? There’s just not a lot going on. Some non-traditional writing and structure — he switches back and forth between first and third person during two timelines for a reason I still can’t determine — and some great semi-stream of consciousness parts kept me reading, though I probably shouldn’t have because I came away from this book with a frown and a shrug at the end. I did appreciate that it was to a degree circular in time, and that he teased what I assume was the weapon (not a spoiler) used in Lawrence’s suicide all throughout.

Just a bunch of limp white boys doing nothing of interest or value. Yes, the miserable listlessness was the point, but Hemingway proved in A Sun Also Rises that you can captivate with listless misery - not here. Clearly, Morris is a talented writer, just maybe this isn’t his best example of his capacity for storytelling. (“A white scar across the mind, indicating where an anchor might have dragged,” a great sentence among many.)

What I will say is there is a fantastic tennis match scene in here which was a joy to read.

I hope this will not be my first and last Morris — one of those books where, while I didn’t enjoy it, enough promise bled through for me to try again. Especially since this is not, I believe, one of his more lauded novels.

[Jose · Rating 2 out of 5]

Como American Pie y su explotation apócrifa Eurotrip pero que en vez de Stiffler, Culofino, Jimbo y el otro tolai son un Stiffler a medio gas (Lawrence) y los otros 3 son todos unos putos pijos de mierda además de unos intensos de cuidado. Que si estás en la San Pablo CEU y quemas tu ropa a diario porque te sientes sucio en un lugar tan propio de la chusma (puesto que tú perteneces a Princeton) posiblemente sintonices de pleno con las cosas de esta gente, pero yo, la verdad, es que estoy fuerísima.

Y encima que son la clase de personas que poseen primer caballo antes que primer coche y yo ahí casi 300 páginas queriendo dejar de leer pero aguantando por si al final, aunque solo fuese un poni, finalmente colmaban lo único que les pedía que hiciesen pero nada, se ponen intensos por culpa de un viaje a Francia y "uyuyuy el mal y el bien" y "oyoyoy la guerra y la muerte" pero ahí acababa la cosa, sin montar un puto caballo o hacerle una triste mamada a un burro, que también me habría bastado.

Eso sí, el partido de tenis que remonta Lawrence es magistral, de si se imparten clases de periodismo deportivo coger, imprimir esas 7 páginas, dárselas a los futuros periodistas y dejar de robarles con una matrícula a varios años que ni justifica la estafa ni las presuntas habilidades que en teoría se les están transmitiendo.