Year-end addendum

I don't know why, but I always kind of assumed that David Sedaris's reading taste (at least the public one) would be considerably more esoteric than mine. Then I saw his bit in The New Yorker blog discussing his 2009 favorites. Among them was the Lorrie Moore novel (as on everybody's end-of-year list, it seems)--but also two other books I really want to read, the upcoming Joshua Ferris novel and Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned.

Also, there was a revelation in there: Dorothy Parker as read by...Elaine Stritch! I don't know what planets aligned for that one, but it must have been amazing.

And this reminds me that 2009 was actually a really good year for quality books, despite the ongoing cataclysm that is publishing--and Sarah Palin.

State of the Union

Once again, the New York Times has rated its top 10 books of the year. Once again, I've read exactly one of them.

The 100 most notable books? I've read three. This is about status quo, though I still feel guilty. However, a quick check of the handy book spreadsheet confirms that I've actually read far more current-release books than usual this year--I guess I'm just not reading the right ones. Or the Times just doesn't appreciate Victorian zombie lit like it should. Whatevs, Michiko Kakutani.

The spreadsheet also reveals that the J&K book club has been remarkably productive as well: we managed to do six books this year, or a little less than half of our overall total. 2009 may have been the Year of the Great "Modern" Debate (to date, the only real book club disagreement since the non-ratification of the unwritten constitution), but we seem to have pulled through.

Also, while I didn't hit my 50-book goal for the year, the overall quality was high. The disappointments were few among the books I committed to reading. And I discovered several authors who've become staples in my reading diet (like Arthur Phillips and Colson Whitehead), and fell in love anew with some old favorites (like Lorrie Moore). So, y'know, God bless us, every one--or something like that.

Indignation by Philip Roth

So for the last three Philip Roth books, I've talked/written about the endangered author syndrome among the mid-20th century luminaries, where they're working on a long goodbye/capstone to seal the legacy. And when it came to proving my theory, Roth was the proviest of them all. The Plot Against America = meditation on his childhood. Everyman = dying New Jerseyan reflecting on his life. Exit Ghost = end of Zuckerman. Poignant, no?

Then I read one of his latest, Indignation. Way to prove my vague and untenable theory wrong, Philip Roth. Now he's just cranking out one-off books like he used to. Which also means that I don't have to worry about approaching the book with reverence, and can admit that I didn't love it.

Indignation is the story of Marcus Messner, a New Jersey kid who tries to slip his father's suffocating anxiety and the ankle-deep blood of the family's kosher butcher shop. His blind, groping efforts to get the hell out of Newark land him on the campus of Winesburg College, a WASP-y liberal arts school in Ohio. Marcus just wants to keep his head down, not talk to anyone, get straight A's, and avoid the Korean War draft. But people have a pesky habit of getting in the way. And rather than accept this with equanimity and get on with his life, Marcus's general reaction is to melt down, and either a) make immediate plans never to talk to the offending parties again; or b) say "f--- you" in the worst possible ways and at the worst possible times.

To be fair, he seems to come across the most obnoxious people on campus: the pompous Christian dean, unbalanced roommates, and your standard fictional unstable chick--who seems awesome at first, and then lets loose with every single piece of baggage she's ever had. Guys, let this be a lesson: when a girl says that she's "only done this once before," and the next minute has the Crazy Eyes? Shut. It. Down. I'm just sayin'.

But anyway, there's something halfhearted about the whole thing: from the smattering of anti-semitism suggestions (none of which really pan out in the plot) to the usual tortured romance, it's all very Roth, but very auto-pilot. There's no reason for this to be as small a book as it is--either in scope or in physical format (largest font ever). There was just so much more space and potential here than the "kid leaves home for college, doesn't fit in" narrative. And when the climax pretty much pops up out of nowhere and seals off the nebulous foreshadowing at the beginning of the book, it's awfully tidy and convenient. Kind of like a morbid version of the epilogue of Animal House.

I think what disappointed me most was the lack of the usual saving grace, Roth's amazing descriptive power. There just isn't much description going on in Indignation, and the novel suffers for it. What little there is, though, is good. There's a scene near the end where Roth manages to turn a frat-guy panty raid into a graphic, stomach-turning bachanal of douchebaggery. And that's the Roth I want more of. This one had the right Rothian elements (anger, sex, Newark), but they just didn't come together the way they usually do. Sad.