Although I’m not a young man I only recently became privy to the essential meaning of “absurdity,” to wit: that it is absurd to think anything has any meaning. Always, before, I figured absurdity for simple silliness. But now that I am a bit older than I once was (aren’t we all) I am starting to see that there is, actually, no such thing as simple silliness. If silliness isn’t supremely complicated, it’s not silly, it’s banal. Banal in the sense that, like everything else, it’s just meaningless.
Thus Nowhere, Berger’s sequel to Who is Teddy Villanova. Not much of a sequel, really: we have the same character and same writing style, but that’s about it. There’s not really any kind of continuation of the prequel novel. In this sense, Nowhere stands on its own. I am telling you this in case you want to read it but don’t know if you need to read Villanova first. You don’t (although I would highly recommend you do read Villanova at some point; it is excellent).
Nowhere is an absurd novel. And it is silly. And it is, if I may, seriously silly. This is not the silliness of random chaos, tangential wanderings, musings, whimsy. This is the well-crafted silliness of a writer dedicated to world building and, by needs, world destruction.
Throughout my reading of Nowhere I found myself trying to unveil the parody, the satire, trying to decipher the hidden subject of his ridicule. But Berger thwarts all of these efforts, and continuously brings the reader back to absurdity. And in the end, he breaks a major rule of writing,
and does so, I think, to put the final nail in the coffin of “meaning.”
I mean, it’s right there in the title; I guess I didn’t take him at his word until the end.