All Shall Be Well; And All Shall Be Well; And All Manner of Things Shall Be Well
By Tod Wodicka (Vintage, £7.99)
All the Sad Young Literary Men
By Keith Gessen (Vintage, £7.99)
Love and Obstacles
By Aleksandar Hemon (Picador, £12.99)
In one of the short stories in Aleksandar Hemon's new book, the narrator describes the arc of his life in the most concise way possible, as a list of scenes for a film: "8. I go out for a stroll. I see a pretty girl. 9. My parents meet the pretty girl. 10. I marry the pretty girl. 11. I work". The list is sharp and funny ("20. My children kiss me," it continues, "21. I kiss them"). This is Hemon's fourth book and I suppose he is entitled to play with conventions. Still, to British readers this self-confidence and refusal to write a proper, fully-scripted story may come as a bit of a surprise. We don't hear all that much about Hemon over here. In America, however, it's different. There, Hemon's previous book, The Lazarus Project, was a finalist for the National Book Award and he is much-fêted as, among other things, the winner of a MacArthur "genius" grant.
Should we choose to seek out his work on this side of the Atlantic, however, we soon discover just how considerable a presence he has. Stories and extracts are available on the internet. The Lazarus Project has a mighty website, as do his earlier books (and Hemon himself). All of which is fairly typical of the latest crop of American authors. A case in point is Keith Gessen, whose debut novel All the Sad Young Literary Men arrived here last year. Gessen is the founding editor of n + 1, an online and print journal with a following large enough to be marketing its own bags and T-shirts.
British writers don't have multimedia operations like Hemon, nor are they as entrepreneurial as Gessen. And this is partly because of the relative size of the public spheres for literary fiction in the two countries. To climb any distance up the peak of public recognition in Britain, it seems that a fledgling writer must feature either in the books pages of the two or three major broadsheet newspapers, the TLS or Granta. Failing this, they face the near impossible prospect of elevating themselves through writers' groups and community grants. There aren't many ways to promote yourself or win a reputation as a writer in Britain.
In America, there are more options. Famously, there are the opportunities provided by the range of literary magazines (both Hemon and Gessen have published fiction in the New Yorker, the most notable of those, but in several other places too, like Harper's and New York). This is important less as a means of getting paid than as a way for a writer to persuade himself that he is on the way to success and recognition. These magazines are camping points on the route to the summit—places to recover a sense of psychological security. Being published in them is an achievement to point out to other people when explaining what you do with your life; whereas even successful British writers often have nothing but the bare back of the mountain stretching out in front of them.
The magazines aren't all, though. There are major regional and city newspapers that also help to boost local writers. And, because of the scale of the country and economy, local writers can earn a living even if they never acquire national acclaim. The regional newspapers are declining, but the wealth of the university system remains as a buttress to contemporary writing careers. There are at least a dozen institutions where literature or creative writing programmes are sufficiently large to provide a writer with a peer group—and, just as importantly, the financial support to focus on writing. As I understand it, a lot of the people around Gessen and n+1 went to Harvard, as he did. Indeed, many of his stories are about this group and they illustrate, if unwittingly, the relative affluence of even a young person who chooses an esoteric course of study or who does nothing but try to write.
All the Sad Young Literary Men itself suggests another reason for the resilience of American fiction. The people Gessen describes in what is effectively a collection of sketches—not quite short stories—tend either to be preparing for a postgraduate degree or to have just completed one. Much of the tension in the book thus arises from scenes like the drive from an apartment to a faculty party, or from the move from a small university town to a proper metropolis.
Gessen's work is a commentary on the structures of the writing and postgraduate industries—which, in America, represent a market large enough to sustain a self-reflective reading community. But he doesn't set out to appeal to anyone else. We have some writing like this in Britain. But we don't, I think, have anything quite like Gessen's book—which isn't funny unless you have read about aspiring writers before (if you have, there is some decent satire in it) and isn't interested in any part of the world outside the American postgraduate slop between apartment and faculty and then the inevitable entry into New York City. At which point, two questions and possibilities for narrative tension arise: whether I am going to keep the same girl; and whether I can make it. Gessen does all of this well. But so what? At least the British versions have to do something slightly larger than what he's attempting.
Hemon's work is more ambitious. Born in Sarajevo, he became an American resident after being stranded during a visit that coincided with a particularly violent episode in the recent Balkan wars. A lot of his writing connects his home and adopted countries: The Lazarus Project itself is the history of an assassination in Chicago committed by someone from Hemon's original world, that of the Balkans. In most of the stories in Love and Obstacles, however, we find Hemon exploring Sarajevo and nearby places as simply a Sarajevan rather than as a citizen of another place.
The difficulty is that Love and Obstacles refuses to surprise. In "Everything," the narrator is sent cross-country by his father to buy a chest freezer. After only a little disruption, that is what the narrator does. In "Good Living," the narrator sells magazine subscriptions in Chicago suburbs. He does it quite well and makes money from it. Reading these stories, I wondered whether Hemon's difference from his fellow American writers—the idea of being a refugee, writing in a language not his own—has now become a sufficient identity for him as a writer. Is this all he will do: be the one Sarajevan amid the Harvard alumni?
Hemon has been massively successful in America already, and this perhaps corrodes the ambition to do anything else. Certainly, a laziness pervades his language and use of imagery. These stories are rank with the stench of rotten phrases: "vibrating with curiosity," "hookers in ridiculously high heels," "plain drunk" and "heavy fog" all appear on the same page. In the story about the freezer, the narrator refers to himself as a "budding poet." Would any teenager do that? He might write poetry, of course, but use the word "budding" to describe himself? I doubt it.
It's revealing that by far the best of these three recent American books (and the one with the best title) is by an author, Tod Wodicka, who is not part of the east coast clique. Wodicka is based in Berlin, studied at the University of Manchester and has only published two major pieces—one in the Guardian and another in the New Statesman. His only comfort and mark on the world is the novel. It is about Burt, a professional historical re-enactor; he makes his own mead, striving to be rarely OOP ("out of period"). He seems a sad case, estranged from his two children, his wife recently deceased. His escape into medieval times could provide an easy fount of humour: a decent story, and a funny one. Yet the book is much more accomplished than that.
The story is told in three phases, not chronologically. Each phase ends powerfully: the reader moves on better informed, but still puzzled, with sharp images and phrases to remember. We don't know until the very end whether to trust Burt's version of events or that remembered by his children. There is an astonishing scene in which Burt breaks into his dying wife's bedroom using a siege tower from the medieval re-enactment that is in full burst in the backdrop. Burt is disconnected from his real life—but his imagined life is an attempt to remember what it is like to have proper relationships. He is re-enacting medieval times, but also more recent moments that he got wrong the first time around.
Wodicka's scenario is one that any of his contemporaries—Gessen, or Junot Diaz or Dave Eggers (two other trendy contemporary writers: successful, brainy and well reviewed by their peers)—might have used as the basis for a long sketch in the New Yorker or an online journal. What Wodicka has done, however, is to stream many months of thought into it. And the resulting novel, it seems to me, demonstrates that the opportunities of the American writing scene may be distractions too. Perhaps it is easier than it needs to be for writers to end their quest for recognition at a comfortable camp on the side of the mountain rather than climbing closer to the top. Hemon and Gessen have been brought to a full stop by the praise of a magazine editor or a publisher. Wodicka has kept going.
By Tod Wodicka (Vintage, £7.99)
All the Sad Young Literary Men
By Keith Gessen (Vintage, £7.99)
Love and Obstacles
By Aleksandar Hemon (Picador, £12.99)
In one of the short stories in Aleksandar Hemon's new book, the narrator describes the arc of his life in the most concise way possible, as a list of scenes for a film: "8. I go out for a stroll. I see a pretty girl. 9. My parents meet the pretty girl. 10. I marry the pretty girl. 11. I work". The list is sharp and funny ("20. My children kiss me," it continues, "21. I kiss them"). This is Hemon's fourth book and I suppose he is entitled to play with conventions. Still, to British readers this self-confidence and refusal to write a proper, fully-scripted story may come as a bit of a surprise. We don't hear all that much about Hemon over here. In America, however, it's different. There, Hemon's previous book, The Lazarus Project, was a finalist for the National Book Award and he is much-fêted as, among other things, the winner of a MacArthur "genius" grant.
Should we choose to seek out his work on this side of the Atlantic, however, we soon discover just how considerable a presence he has. Stories and extracts are available on the internet. The Lazarus Project has a mighty website, as do his earlier books (and Hemon himself). All of which is fairly typical of the latest crop of American authors. A case in point is Keith Gessen, whose debut novel All the Sad Young Literary Men arrived here last year. Gessen is the founding editor of n + 1, an online and print journal with a following large enough to be marketing its own bags and T-shirts.
British writers don't have multimedia operations like Hemon, nor are they as entrepreneurial as Gessen. And this is partly because of the relative size of the public spheres for literary fiction in the two countries. To climb any distance up the peak of public recognition in Britain, it seems that a fledgling writer must feature either in the books pages of the two or three major broadsheet newspapers, the TLS or Granta. Failing this, they face the near impossible prospect of elevating themselves through writers' groups and community grants. There aren't many ways to promote yourself or win a reputation as a writer in Britain.
In America, there are more options. Famously, there are the opportunities provided by the range of literary magazines (both Hemon and Gessen have published fiction in the New Yorker, the most notable of those, but in several other places too, like Harper's and New York). This is important less as a means of getting paid than as a way for a writer to persuade himself that he is on the way to success and recognition. These magazines are camping points on the route to the summit—places to recover a sense of psychological security. Being published in them is an achievement to point out to other people when explaining what you do with your life; whereas even successful British writers often have nothing but the bare back of the mountain stretching out in front of them.
The magazines aren't all, though. There are major regional and city newspapers that also help to boost local writers. And, because of the scale of the country and economy, local writers can earn a living even if they never acquire national acclaim. The regional newspapers are declining, but the wealth of the university system remains as a buttress to contemporary writing careers. There are at least a dozen institutions where literature or creative writing programmes are sufficiently large to provide a writer with a peer group—and, just as importantly, the financial support to focus on writing. As I understand it, a lot of the people around Gessen and n+1 went to Harvard, as he did. Indeed, many of his stories are about this group and they illustrate, if unwittingly, the relative affluence of even a young person who chooses an esoteric course of study or who does nothing but try to write.
All the Sad Young Literary Men itself suggests another reason for the resilience of American fiction. The people Gessen describes in what is effectively a collection of sketches—not quite short stories—tend either to be preparing for a postgraduate degree or to have just completed one. Much of the tension in the book thus arises from scenes like the drive from an apartment to a faculty party, or from the move from a small university town to a proper metropolis.
Gessen's work is a commentary on the structures of the writing and postgraduate industries—which, in America, represent a market large enough to sustain a self-reflective reading community. But he doesn't set out to appeal to anyone else. We have some writing like this in Britain. But we don't, I think, have anything quite like Gessen's book—which isn't funny unless you have read about aspiring writers before (if you have, there is some decent satire in it) and isn't interested in any part of the world outside the American postgraduate slop between apartment and faculty and then the inevitable entry into New York City. At which point, two questions and possibilities for narrative tension arise: whether I am going to keep the same girl; and whether I can make it. Gessen does all of this well. But so what? At least the British versions have to do something slightly larger than what he's attempting.
Hemon's work is more ambitious. Born in Sarajevo, he became an American resident after being stranded during a visit that coincided with a particularly violent episode in the recent Balkan wars. A lot of his writing connects his home and adopted countries: The Lazarus Project itself is the history of an assassination in Chicago committed by someone from Hemon's original world, that of the Balkans. In most of the stories in Love and Obstacles, however, we find Hemon exploring Sarajevo and nearby places as simply a Sarajevan rather than as a citizen of another place.
The difficulty is that Love and Obstacles refuses to surprise. In "Everything," the narrator is sent cross-country by his father to buy a chest freezer. After only a little disruption, that is what the narrator does. In "Good Living," the narrator sells magazine subscriptions in Chicago suburbs. He does it quite well and makes money from it. Reading these stories, I wondered whether Hemon's difference from his fellow American writers—the idea of being a refugee, writing in a language not his own—has now become a sufficient identity for him as a writer. Is this all he will do: be the one Sarajevan amid the Harvard alumni?
Hemon has been massively successful in America already, and this perhaps corrodes the ambition to do anything else. Certainly, a laziness pervades his language and use of imagery. These stories are rank with the stench of rotten phrases: "vibrating with curiosity," "hookers in ridiculously high heels," "plain drunk" and "heavy fog" all appear on the same page. In the story about the freezer, the narrator refers to himself as a "budding poet." Would any teenager do that? He might write poetry, of course, but use the word "budding" to describe himself? I doubt it.
It's revealing that by far the best of these three recent American books (and the one with the best title) is by an author, Tod Wodicka, who is not part of the east coast clique. Wodicka is based in Berlin, studied at the University of Manchester and has only published two major pieces—one in the Guardian and another in the New Statesman. His only comfort and mark on the world is the novel. It is about Burt, a professional historical re-enactor; he makes his own mead, striving to be rarely OOP ("out of period"). He seems a sad case, estranged from his two children, his wife recently deceased. His escape into medieval times could provide an easy fount of humour: a decent story, and a funny one. Yet the book is much more accomplished than that.
The story is told in three phases, not chronologically. Each phase ends powerfully: the reader moves on better informed, but still puzzled, with sharp images and phrases to remember. We don't know until the very end whether to trust Burt's version of events or that remembered by his children. There is an astonishing scene in which Burt breaks into his dying wife's bedroom using a siege tower from the medieval re-enactment that is in full burst in the backdrop. Burt is disconnected from his real life—but his imagined life is an attempt to remember what it is like to have proper relationships. He is re-enacting medieval times, but also more recent moments that he got wrong the first time around.
Wodicka's scenario is one that any of his contemporaries—Gessen, or Junot Diaz or Dave Eggers (two other trendy contemporary writers: successful, brainy and well reviewed by their peers)—might have used as the basis for a long sketch in the New Yorker or an online journal. What Wodicka has done, however, is to stream many months of thought into it. And the resulting novel, it seems to me, demonstrates that the opportunities of the American writing scene may be distractions too. Perhaps it is easier than it needs to be for writers to end their quest for recognition at a comfortable camp on the side of the mountain rather than climbing closer to the top. Hemon and Gessen have been brought to a full stop by the praise of a magazine editor or a publisher. Wodicka has kept going.
