The Custom of the Country (1913), Edith Wharton
Wharton’s divorce novel. She had gone through it herself, but here she uses it as a comic tool in the ruthless social climb, rung by painful rung, of Undine Spragg, a worthy cousin of Thackeray’s Becky Sharp and Trollope’s Lizzie Eustace. An American cousin. Her ruthlessness mixed with her genuine American innocence, or ignorance, or both, is a great source of comic energy.
Plenty more comedy. As a language student, I enjoyed the American traveler “in command of but a few verbs, all of which, on her lips, became irregular” (Ch. 12). Wharton also occasionally finds some fine descriptive language, this hot August day in New York City, for example: “Swirls of dust lay on the mosaic floor, and a stale smell of decayed fruit and salt air and steaming asphalt filled the place like a fog” (Ch. 22).
But it is Undine who keeps this novel moving. The final chapter is magnificent, turning the book into some kind of dystopian novel. A triumph; a plunge into the abyss.
The Bridge of San Luis Rey (1927), Thornton Wilder
Here I find an early use of the Winesburg, Ohio device, with stories connected by place and time. A bridge collapses, inspiring a priest to learn about the victims. He hopes to learn something about the problem of God and the existence of evil. The stories that follow have a lot to say about how to live well, but of course almost nothing about theodicy, nothing the reader did not already know. Maybe I am wrong about this. Good for book discussion groups, I guess. Still good. See – do not read, but see – the last chapter of The Goldfinch (2013) for a current example.
The bridge is near Lima, and collapses in 1714. Wilder reconstructs his Peru entirely from books and his imagination, which lets him think big. I especially liked the third story, about an actress and her manager, or maybe a manager and his actress, the greatest actress in the Spanish-speaking world.
They went to Mexico… They slept on beaches, they were whipped at Panama and shipwrecked on some tiny Pacific islands plastered with the droppings of birds. They tramped through jungles delicately picking their way among snakes and beetles. They sold themselves out as harvesters in a hard season. Nothing in the world was very surprising to them. (“Uncle Pio”)
It is almost fantasy, or at least grand opera.
Tenth of December (2013), George Saunders
I have not read any other Saunders, not a word. In this collection, he is a lot like Kurt Vonnegut except not as funny. Or to be precise, this book is not as funny as four of the five Vonnegut novels I have read. Bluebeard (1987) was a dud. The book is not as funny as that of his student Kathleen Founds. But funny is not everything.
Several stories have light science fiction conceits, like memory-altering chemicals or the odd business in “The Semplica Girl Diaries,” in which young immigrant women from difficult circumstances are used by faddish Americans as yard decorations, voluntarily, for pay. I guess this one is also good for discussion, although I could not work out the allegory in any direction that was interesting.
The critic Robert Scholes wrote that Vonnegut put bitter coatings on sugar pills, and boy does Saunders ever do the same. Nothing here seemed very hard to deal with, ethically or linguistically.
I thought the title story, the last one, was unusually good. The conceit, or gimmick, is only linguistic. A man with brain cancer wants to commit suicide before he becomes incapacitated. He is losing his language. As his consciousness streams along it has trouble:
With every step he was fleeing father and father. Farther from father. Stepfarther. What a victory he was wresting. From the jaws of the feet. (230)
Punning as psychology, with the man’s despair a response not just to his own illness but to the frightening illness and death of his beloved stepfather. A human-scaled story, with little comedy beyond the tone, the voice. If it sounds dark, well, just let the pill dissolve a little.
