The International Writers Magazine: Review
Lost
In The City, by Edward P. Jones
Dan Schneider
Synchronicity is, more or less, a
random event that seems to have more than a random meaning. Such
it was when I read Edward P. Jones short story collection
Lost In The City directly after having read Sherman Alexies
Ten Little Indians. The reason was that Alexies book showed
off everything thats wrong with PC Elitist art and literature,
coming from a person in an ethnic minority, while Jones
book- a 1992 National Book Award finalist, reprinted after the
great success of his 2003 NBA and Pulitzer prize winning novel
The Known World- showed off almost everything that minority writers
can do to fight the stereotype, as Alexie preaches,
but does not practice.
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Both mens
books deal with specific peoples in specific locals - Alexies
with Spokane Indians in Washington state, while Jones with blacks
in Washington, D.C. Jones, unlike Alexie, has quality writing in all
fourteen of his stories, because his characters are fully realized,
and nor caricatures nor stereotypes, and the situations that they have
to deal with flow naturally out of predicaments of their proscribed
lives. Are there some stereotypically black characters?
A few, but they are minor characters, and in the background of the tales,
as are most walking stereotypes you or I know. And there are seeming
stereotypes- such as young hoodlums and drug dealers, that are revealed
to have nuances and depths. Alexie does not undermine and nuance his
characters in any way in his worst stories, while his best tale- one
on the life cycle of a marriage between Indians, is his best tale precisely
for the fact that its focus is on the marriage, not that it is an Indian
marriage. Race and bigotry and pain are the reason for many Alexie
tales, and they quickly devolve into screeds. Jones is a much more mature
writer, and his worst tales, which are merely solid stories, are so
not because of predictability, screeding, nor stereotyping, but simply
because they go on too long, or the conversations do not serve the tale
well. Those are minor ills, though, as this is a book that well should
be praised. In comparison, especially, to the pap thats published
nowadays, its a great book.
The first tale, The Girl Who Raised Pigeons, is a flat-out great
story- rich evocative, filled with poetry, and a terrific end- about
Betsy Ann Morgan, being raised by her widowered father, finding inspiration
in the birds she cares for on her rooftop pigeon coop. Read it, then
read what is published online or in name magazines, and
the difference is clear. The First Day is a brief tone poem on
a childs first day in school, and its end is haunting. Just a
wonderful evocation of a moment that almost every reader can relate
to. The Night Rhonda Ferguson Was Killed is another strong story-
a slice of life about the effect of a girls senseless death on
her good friend, whose end rocks you, even though you know whats
coming. Young Lions is the first weak story, but thats
relative to the first three tales. Its about young criminals,
has not much insight, and a bit of a melodramatic end. Still, its
far better than any online pap youll find about hip badasses.
The Store is the best tale in the book, and certainly one of
the greatest published short stories of the last twenty or so years.
It is lush in detail, and insight, into a bygone era, as it follows
the several year career of an irresponsible young man who gradually
learns responsibility, the worth of things and people, and a sense of
place in the cosmos. Its end is touching, but its simply a masterwork
of writing. An Orange Line Train To Ballston is another moment-piece,
ala The First Day, although not quite as poignant- but still
larded with skill and insight. The Sunday Following Mothers
Day is a good story, about the aftermath of a domestic murder of
a woman by her husband, whose only weak spot is its end- but overall,
very strong.
The titular tale, Lost In The City, is another moment-piece following
a drug-addled discombobulated woman, whos a rich buppy lawyer,
rushing to a hospital to see her mother, who has just died. The lay
out of the inner workings of the bereaved womans mind is an excellent
approach, and Jones pulls it off magnificently. His Mothers
House is a solid tale thats a bit too long, and- like Young
Lions- follows young hoodlums and violence. It is a relatively weak
tale, and I suspect that Jones, in both stories, had no firsthand experience,
or simply could not properly empathize. These are minor quibbles, and
even these weakest tales are still several notches above what is generally
published. A Butterfly On F Street is another brief moment-piece,
about the awkward meeting of a widow, and the woman her husband left
her for, on a street corner. Its poetry and symbolism are resonant.
A terrific tale. Gospel is a slice of life about the aftermath
of the neighborhood churchs burning down, and its effects on the
churchs gospel singers. It is too long, but has nice moments.
It is, again, a weak tale only relative to the other gems within, as
slices of life stories really need to be short, as mood pieces, lest
they just start droning on about insignificant things. Minutia can quickly
become trivia. A New Man follows the changes wrought by the unexpected
disappearance of a lonely couples only child- their fifteen year
old daughter. It is haunting, and its end brings tears- but it is no
mere tearjerker- these babies are heartfelt!
A Dark Night is a light and slight tale, with a great end, whose
premise can be filled in by my merely telling you it is night, and stormy.
This is frivolous, but fun. The final tale in the book is Marie-
another absolute home run of greatness. It follows an elderly woman
who worries that her Social Security checks are in jeopardy, especially
after she slaps a rude and demeaning receptionist at the Social Security
office. She is then visited by a Howard University college kid who wants
to tape her life story for a folklore project. The end of the tale,
which follows Marie listening to her recorded voice is powerful, in
both psychological and dramatic ways, and its end perfectly in tune
with the character we see sketched before us. It is a terrific end to
a great book.
Of the fourteen stories I reckon at least nine are excellent to great,
and the others solid to good. Thats a phenomenal ratio in this
watered down age. Its a great book, and has most truck with James
Joyces Dubliners, rather than Alexies stereotypes,
or the exaggerated grotesques of a Sherwood Anderson or Flannery OConnor,
because the characters are people first, rather than blacks or Washingtonians,
just as Joyces characters are people first, before they are Irishmen
and Dubliners. That said, Jones characters do engage in some stereotypical
behavior, as do Joyces, but it is limited, and certainly not the
norm, and the characters who do descend to such depths usually pay for
their shallowness. Also, like Dubliners, there is cross-pollination
between stories, as main characters in one tale sometimes cameo in later
tales, as the stories are over several decades- a noticeable difference
from Dubliners, which is concentrated over a one or two year period.
Why is it so difficult to find great writers and stories? Why does not
the publishing industry find and promote more Edward P. Joneses? Well,
first off, there are not that many, but, these stories may not be moneymakers
because they do not offer pat solutions, nor are the characters caricatures,
and they do not skim along the mere surfaces of things. It also takes
an effort for readers to fully appreciate the multi-hued, and deeply
textured tales and portraits Jones relates, and most people suffer from
video game or MTV languor. Yet, is there, or has there ever been, a
better virtual reality machine than a great piece of writing? A great
poem puts you in a moment, and a great story can arc you through events
that you can feel, almost as if experiencing them for yourself.
I loathe the cheapening of thought and conversation and striving for
insight. That is why I love this book, and the relative handful of other
works like it that are out there. Instead of the shot at a quick, cheap,
moneymaker, publishers should seek quality, and promote it, to develop
careers, rather than get one hit wonders, whose one hit was dependent
upon things other than the writing quality- which is usually sorely
lacking. Accept lesser profits in the short term, but greater in the
long run, while also contributing to literature. It then forces an upward
spiral of writing, where people can look to an Edward Jones, or William
Kennedy, or Charles Johnson, and say, I want to write like them,
because theyre good, and I want to contribute to my culture,,
rather than this several decades long downward spiral where bad writers
see a Mary Gaitskill or Yann Martell or Stephen Elliott or (fill in
the Oprah-type writer) being published, and say, I want to write
like them, because its easy, and I can write better than that
crap, and I want to be famous.
It is not enough to merely say why a writer is good, but show it, praise
it, and honor it as among the best an individual can do, and the highest
that human beings can achieve. On that note I will close with the terrific
end of The Night Rhonda Ferguson Was Killed:
She made a pallet for her daughter beside the bed and turned
out the light when she left the room. Occasionally, Cassandra would
drift into what Anita thought was sleep. All the while Cassandra gritted
her teeth. Sometime, way late in the night, Cassandra spoke out, and
at first Anita thought she was talking in her sleep: She asked Anita
to sing that song she sung in the car on the way home. Anita sang; long
after her parents had gone to bed, long after she stopped wondering
if Cassandra was listening, Anita sang. She sang on into the night for
herself alone, her voice pushing back everything she did not yet understand.
Understand yet?
© Dan Schneider June 2005
www.Cosmoetica.com
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