It doesn’t take long for the reader of Andrew Sean Greer’s first novel, The Path of Minor Planets, to know that the titular minor planets refer to both this book’s comets and the earthlings obsessed (some more than others) with them. The novel proceeds to corroborate the connection of these celestial and temporal bodies, leapfrogging years at a time in doing so. Chapters coincide with the salient moments of a particular comet’s journey through the cosmos, when its orbit is nearest or furthest from Earth. So, we have chapters that jump 1965, 1971, 1977, 1983 to1990. But Greer is not overly constrained by this chronological construction, allowing himself minor retrogrades within each chapter to flashback to key events that have since passed or will come to be.
This mode of storytelling is doubly effective. On a practical level, it kept me more intrigued (as by mentioning a funeral up front but only slowly meandering towards letting me know who had died), and helped fill in some of the back story in convenient asides.
More abstractly, this framework succeeds in giving structure to the metaphors of time and observation present throughout the novel. Just as the light produced by stars in Orion’s belt must travel for millions of years to reach us, we discover plot elements long after they have occurred.
The characters, too, have time-shifted revelations: they see meaningful pictures for the first time only years after they were taken; they read a note in a margin left by a lover long gone; they deduce deceptions too late to thwart malicious designs. Time/space is a key element of the stories told within Minor Planets, and the structure appropriately reflects this.
Simile and metaphor are some of Greer’s greatest strengths, but he can tend to favor them too much. Too often do we read that the light through a keyhole illuminates a portion of the floor as a chess piece, or that intrapersonal interactions are not unlike gravities, whose subtle shifts can send comets on entirely new orbits. At times, these observations hint that Greer possibly has an (unjustified) mistrust in his skills as a storyteller. At other times, the clever similes, despite their aptness, seem to keep a reader from really getting to the heart of the moment–like one paintbrush stroke too many. The moments where Greer trusts the sentences to be bare are welcome, and not frequent enough. One of my favorites: “He would fight for her; he would do anything to keep her, to make her happy. He would hurt people, lie, go to any lengths.”
I’m glad to consider the ambiguous “any lengths” on my own, with the lack of specifics amplifying the possibilities.
This is not to say that I did not enjoy the book, although Greer’s [macro|micro] cosmic language often sowed the seeds for my personal, tangential contemplations, that, while personally gratifying, often kept the novel and its characters at arm’s length.
Of course, I find it difficult to separate one writer’s work from his others. Consider the opening of Greer’s other novel, The Confessions of Max Tivoli: “We are each the love of someone’s life” says Max, the narrator, who wastes no time in adding, “. . . There is a dead body to explain,” thereby feeding my own low brow page-turner pangs with a healthy dose of elegant, thoughtful and heartbreaking insight. While The Path of Minor Planets is very much in the same vein as Confessions, I prefer the latter’s smaller cast of characters and more restrained prose. All the time I read The Path of Minor Planets, I couldn’t help but think of the ways in which it was not quite right. Which is, I guess, is a kind of backhanded compliment–lesser books would have simply been discarded, unread. There is enough here to provide an entertaining read, and enough to hold it to a higher standard.
The latest posts at the blog of The Quarterly Conversation
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A fan of Herman Melville must have patience. He must appreciate digression and the dissolution of pattern or plan. He must enjoy the sheer rush of words, a proper Biblical torrent of them. And he must be able to find pleasure in philosophical dialogue as much as in wild anecdote. But must he read Clarel? Can [...]
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Ever since Penguin's 75th Anniversary roadtrip I have intended to address the somewhat simultaneous release of Penguin 75, a sort of vanity book of Penguin covers. This book is delightful, but flawed. Delightful, but misleading.
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Janet Holmes, director of Ahsahta Press, based at Boise State University in Idaho, took the time this week to share her thoughts on poetry publishing as part of my ongoing series of publisher profiles. Ahsahta publishes seven full-length collections of poetry a year, including recent works by Kate Greenstreet, Lisa Fishman, Rusty Morrison, and Julie Carr. Like some other small presses, Ahsahta offers a yearly subscription option, which is one of my favorite ways to buy poetry and encounter the work of many poets who are new to me, as well as poets whose newest books I always look forward to reading. Janet says more about this and what it's like to craft a press's identity and consistent aesthetic.
An unfortunate side effect to the lengthy transition of print to digital is our long suffering endurance of stale articles in mainstream media rehashing the same points as every other article in mainstream media.
The latest articles published in between issues
In Ransom, Malouf satisfyingly gives us a meeting between Priam and Achilles that builds from the interiority of Priam. The novel seems to want to teach the importance of doing something human to those who might never get around to picking up Homer or who, if they do, might wish they could get into the character's heads.
Winterson has always told and retold the same fictions: of parents and children; of origins, and adoptions; of differences, of margins; of love; of passion; she has always manipulated rhythm and language as an excavation of sources. Much of her fiction mirrors what we know of Winterson's own story, but she agitates against the idea that her work has to be considered as fiction or autobiography, laying claim to both. In Art Objects she writes: "The question put to the writer 'How much of this is based on your own experience?' is meaningless. All or nothing may be the answer. The fiction, the poem, is not a version of the facts, it is an entirely different way of seeing"; a "separate reality." At every turn she eludes the critic, the interviewer, the reader; she offers truth, but not the truth. "I'm telling you stories. Trust me."
It's difficult to pin down exactly why books as objects mean so much to me. I wasn't alive when William Goyen's excellent Come, The Restorer was published, but owning an original printing with the dust jacket—as it would have been purchased at the time of its release—makes the book more special to me than some beat-up paperback reissue. If it's signed, even more so. I'm only really interested in modern first editions (say, post-1950 or so)—before that books get quite expensive, but also I don't think they look as nice, since many were issued without dust jackets, and at that time the dust jacket wasn't considered a permanent part of the book, so they're often missing. So why the obsession and collecting, and why is it so important?
Wood can be harsh, yes, but he is seldom unfair. Wyatt Mason was wrong to accuse him of having suggested, by dint of a string of negative reviews, that no good contemporary literature exists. (He has written favorably of McEwan, Bolaño, Robinson, Ozick, Kirsch, Sebald, Roth, Saramago, Swift, Carey.) He never simply dismisses a writer (in the manor of, say, Dale Peck); on the contrary, his criticism, even at its most polemical and uncompromising, is inexplicably bound to larger concerns about the direction of contemporary fiction. Two major concerns have dominated James Wood's writing: realism and religion. In The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief, his first collection, newly available in paperback from Picador, these two concerns are beautifully imbricated, resulting in what is surely among the finest achievements in recent literary journalism.
To say that Mark McMorris's Entrepôt is about writing poetry is to do a huge disservice to this beautiful and penetrating book, whose ostensible subject of contemplation is how to live, love, and make do in a time of war, if not cultural crisis. On the other hand, the book's greatest service, at least to my eye, is in its exploration of just what it means to be a poet—I should be more specific and say a lyric poet—amid our contemporary terrors.