Not So Brief, and Far From Wondrous

There was the hope that literary fiction, post-colonial literature, and science fiction could come together in a brilliant – perhaps wondrous – way. Junot Díaz tempts us with such a possibility – a gorgeous portrayal of a life that is both real and yet, by it's very nature, fantastical. In a way, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao manages this task.

But there is the part of me that feels let down. The picture the catalog-copy paints is one of a single hero, struggling to live up to the ideals that he reads about as the consummate fan-boy. I acknowledge this struggle may be subtle – that he might possibly lose -- but there's nothing disappointing about that. Heck, I concede that Díaz was not specifically writing science fiction – he's using it as an allusion, an analogy. As he writes: “What's more sci-fi than the Dominican Republic?”

Apparently everything.

In its Otherness, I can see what he's trying to point out. An evil, monstrous dictator who is both omniscient and terrible – yes, I can see a Trujillo/Sauron comparison. But, the fact is, Sauron is an idea born from reality, Trujillo is the reality (not that Sauron is based on Trujillo specifically, but on the many dictators throughout history). The power of science fiction isn't to create monsters – it's to tame them. To escape them, defeat them, or at worst, literally close the book on them: allowing their victory in return for the solace of the illusionary safety of our reality.

Díaz, in essence, does the opposite of science fiction. Sci-fi isn't the suspension of disbelief, but rather the creation of belief. When successful – always an important step – sci-fi draws its reader in, regardless of the unbelievable nature, alien races, or paranormal systems. Díaz does draw you in – he's a fine writer – but he doesn't create belief in the Dominican Republic. If anything, the world he points out is unnatural to us, and perhaps too much so. And, ironically, the problem isn't that Trujillo isn't a monster, but rather that he's painted as both a “monster” and a Monster: a human devoid of humanity and a being is so completely without definition that it's impossible to come to grips with him.

I think what also hurts is the lack, not of a hero – many sci-fi works lack heroes – but of a protagonist. Because Oscar is not the center of the story. If there was a protagonist, it would be his whole family, but that doesn't completely compute, either, because they are often at odds with each other. There is a focus on Oscar, but the book is more the story of his past (and his family's past). Much of the action centers outside of Oscar's sphere (and, as is the case with his mother's story) his time). But, unlike the adventuring parties in science fiction , this cast of characters does not does not work in conjunction with each other, and their goals are very different. Overall, the book fails in creating incredibly sympathetic characters.

On a more personal note: I wanted more geek! There's something ego-boosting about being shouted out in by an artist, whether it's a band screaming out the name of the city they happen to be playing in or an author mentioning things that you can connect with. When I first read the description of The Brief Wondrous Life, I thought it was going to be an homage to all things nerdy. I was ready and willing to smile every time I could say: Hey, I know that reference! Instead, what we were thrown were little dork-tidbits surrounding a meaty-core of post-colonial burger. And that saddens me a bit.

This isn't a terrible book. Most people I have encountered who have also read it have loved it. But I might be too much a part of the world Díaz is describing. No, I'm not Dominican, but I have read a great deal in the genre. And then, of course, I was raised in the science fiction genre. In writing a hybrid, Díaz has the freedom of picking and choosing the best of the many genres he wishes to sample, but also has to contend with the fans of those disparate works. In the end, Díaz's experiment falls short of coming together as a whole, and that's so disappointing for a book that I approached with such high expectations.

Makes me happy I borrowed it instead of buying. So do yourself a favor, patronize your local library, but keep the book from permanent residence on your shelves.

All's Well That Ends Well

I think the hardest part of any writing endeavor will always be the ending. Say what you will about the importance of introductions, the presentation of information – the opening moments – are relatively easy. It doesn’t take much to get a reader interested. For the most part, the fact that they’ve opened the book is generally enough for at least a couple of pages. Obviously you then need to develop something, but again, as readers, we’re generally pretty easy to please.

Remember, I did say “relatively.”

If you think about it in double-entendre terms, it’s not that hard to get to some sort of climax (Note: guy writing this). It is the afterwards (the Afterward, if you will) that is so often disappointing. While the author is patting himself on the back for bringing off the plot to spectacular fruition, the reader is left thinking: are we done? It takes a great writer, like a great lover (I wasn’t sure if you were with me on my double-entendre train), to make sure all parties involved are satisfied.

What I’m presenting you was not a great lover.

In the world of literary accomplishment, it’s usually quite an honor for a British (Commonwealth) writer to be on the short-list for the Man Booker Prize. Essentially an English Pulitzer, it’s also a bit high on its own pretensions. Case in point: Mister Pip.

This is not a bad book. I want to make that clear right now. Lloyd Jones does something imaginative with the post-colonial genre, namely, re-appropriate a classic, canonical text to serve as both a plot-device and centering point for the novel. For those of you not quite on the allusion wave-length, Mister Pip is referring to Philip Pirrip, or Pip, from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations.

The story is about an island somewhere in the South Pacific where the people live in what begins as peaceful semi-isolation. Although not completely disconnected (Mathilda, the young girl who is the narrator, mentions her father, like many other men, have gone to Australia to work), they are basically unconcerned about what’s going on around them. Much of that could be because of our narrator being so young, but the picture we get is a peaceful, happy community.

But then war comes. War brings an end to power, an end to packaged food, and an end to medicine. In their place, it brings the beginning of a school led by Mr. Watts, a.k.a. “Popeye,” the lone white man left on the island. Admitting that he’s not the greatest teacher, Mr. Watts does his best impression of Danny DeVito in Renaissance Man and decides to read to them. Instead of Hamlet, however, Mr. Watts reads Great Expectations.

This is the clever part. This is where the allusions and juxtapositions take place, just as the misinterpretations and word-play (as he tries to explain difficult words to the children who have no context for the world of Pip) come alive. This is the post-colonial moment at its best, where West meets Other, and a new world comes alive.

Yet, it’s also a forced moment, especially as it gets carried out as you move along in the story. When the redskins come and demand to meet Mr. Pip, it seems preposterous that they couldn’t explain the situation even without the aid of the book as proof. It seems equally odd that, with the information, the redskins – with their clearly superior technology – could easily find out about Charles Dickens if they were really so concerned. Perhaps we’re supposed to assume the cruelty of the redskins (and, I have to admit, I’m lost as to who Jones is referring to here), but I think that’s assuming a great deal on his part. The motivations that lead up to the problems are not very believable.

But even with all that, it’s still not a bad novel. Like so many teaching stories, the best moments are the interactions between the students and the teacher. It is only after the violence, the supposed climax, that the reader is left questioning what the deal is with this book. For if the climax was abrupt, then what follows is practically lethargic. After the violence (which isn’t graphic, and therefore not exactly shocking), I just have no more “me” to give except that I know there’s only a few more pages, so I might as well finish. That’s not what I would consider a great recommendation.

Too many things happen that don’t help resolve the climax. The flood – it’s either too symbolic or too cheesy; I can’t decide. Mathilda going to visit Mr. Watts’ home in Wellington – accomplishes little by means of explanation. The reunion with her father is probably designed to be anti-climactic, but it feels even less important when on top of everything else. The one thing that maybe works is that Mathilda feels the compulsion to make her life’s work Dickens. After the connection she makes with the book and the impact it had on her life up to her escape, this makes sense.

I just had stopped caring at that point.

Because, the story wasn’t about Mathilda. It was the story of the island, and, to a lesser degree, Mr. Watts. Mathilda was the narrator and the focalizer, but she wasn’t the protagonist. Not until the very end, after all the other protagonists were left to the wayside, does she become the most important person in the book. Maybe that’s something neat or interesting to do with a novel, but I have to say it leaves me unsatisfied because Jones ends up concluding a story that isn’t the same one that we read.

If you have to choose a book to read, stick with the inspiration, and leave Mister Pip to win its award.

That’s an ending we can all be happy with.