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warming is really getting on my nerves. Here at Powell's we relish
our sodden, Oregon winters. The incessant, gloomy drizzle not
only keeps tanned, optimistic Californians out, but, well, it
keeps us just where we like to be, pleasantly downcast and dejected.
To an Oregonian, nothing spells comfort like gray skies, soggy
socks, and a lingering bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder.
But this year everything's gone terribly wrong. The weather's
been so infernally pleasant – sunny even! – I've hardly
opened my umbrella, let alone my bottle of Prozac. Are greenhouse
gases really to blame? Who's to say. But at least my colleagues
and I have discovered a remedy for that unwanted bounce in our
step.
I don't know why it took so long. The solution should have been
obvious. Who has more experience battling the harmful effects
of blue sky than the inhabitants of the Sun Belt? It's no mistake
southern literature is so dark and disturbed. The poor souls need
something to counter all that insufferable sun.
So for the past few months my coworkers and I have been reading
nothing but tortured southerners. And though the mood in the lunch
room has been about as friendly as a Snopes family picnic, at
least we've stopped pining for our light
boxes.
The current favorite among my colleagues is a bit of a surprise.
It's not Flannery
O'Connor or William Faulkner as you might expect, but a newcomer,
William Gay. Though Gay is an aging carpenter who
started publishing novels late in life, he's rapidly made up for
lost time. His recently released second novel has already solidified
his reputation as one of the best living writers of southern gothic.
The title, Provinces of Night, is a phrase from
Cormac McCarthy's Child
of God. If that doesn't tell you everything you need to know
(see below), the tone of the novel's first sentence should:
| "The dozer took the first cut out of the claybank below
Hixson's old place promptly at seven o'clock and by nine the
sun was well up in an absolutely cloudless sky and it hung
over the ravaged earth like a malediction." |
Gay's characters have names like Fleming Bloodworth, Raven Lee,
and Itchy Mama; they are driven by jealousy and ancestral blood-ties;
they put hexes on people from their mamma's porches; they wither
as they age; and they die unpleasant deaths. Gay's pitch-perfect
portrayal of southern dysfunction will cure most any festive mood
and send its reader straight for that aging bottle of sour mash
languishing amongst the roach droppings under the sink.
For many of my coworkers, reading William Gay has been more than
sufficient to cure that infectious smile. But for an unfortunate
few, those facing a particularly virulent case of good spirits,
Gay just hasn't been up to the task. These sufferers need stronger
medicine. William Gay quotes Cormac McCarthy. Why not just
take him undiluted?
Now, Cormac McCarthy has written a number of truly devastating
works. Blood Meridian, for example, is savage to the
core, and The Crossing is unbearably sad. But when what
you really need is a relentless five hundred page tour through
despair, stupidity, and depression, Suttree is your ticket home. This novel about
the miserable life of Cornelius Suttree, who trades in his priveledged
pedigree for a position in Knoxville's community of outcasts,
will take you weeks to get through. When you're done, you'll be
emotionally exhausted. Your thoughts will be so consumed with
wonder that any of us manage to suffer through each anguished
day you won't even notice those birds chirping joyfully in the
branches overhead. While we're sampling passages, here's one pulled
at random from Suttree:
| "He was enamored of the night and those quiet regions
on the city's inward edges too dismal for dwelling. Down alleyways
of flueblack brick. Through a gate unhinged to a garden of
gloom" |
After twenty hours of that, you won't even be able to get out
of bed in the morning.
The only problem with Suttree is the undeniable fact that
in parts it is hilariously funny. Gene Harrogate, Suttree's semi-moronic,
melon-humping protégé, is the funniest literary
character this side of Evelyn
Waugh. You will undoubtedly chuckle for days after he tries
to get rich killing bats. But don't let that deter you. Just as
a shot of bourbon will damage your liver with or without the cherry
garnish, Suttree will send you, global warming be damned,
straight into a despondent funk. I can't recommend this novel
highly enough.
—Carlisle
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