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rinueA publisher friend of mine, Tim Lieder of Dybbuk Press and Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre fame, passed me this book to review, This Other Eden, by Michael Hemmingson. Not only didn't I pay for this book, but Tim's publishing a story of mine (not in exchange for the review), so I might be a little inclined to be friendly. On the other hand, I have a history of ratting out authority figures, so maybe it doesn't make such a difference.
First impressions: as an object, it's nice. It's a good size and shape; the text is legibly printed and admirably free from typos and punctuation errors. The cover art works, the pages don't stick together, and when I'm reading the book at the DMV I don't worry it's going to fall apart or make me look like an idiot. That sounds like faint praise, but it's something I can't even say about The New York Times these days. This is a book I can stuff in my backpack or throw across the room without doing much damage. I can point to passages and not apologize for making someone squint. That's value.
As for the words inside the book, they're readable without being brilliant. Put more positively, my world hasn't been expanded but my time hasn't been wasted either. This Other Eden is a collection of previously published short stories full of gritty intellectuals who are pretty damn likeable - Bogart for the new millennium, basically, the kind of stuff that helps you feel, when you're down on your luck, that it's all maybe sorta romantic - or at least that your troubles really are deadly and you're not a wuss for thinking so.
I won't go so far as to say that Hemmingson transcends or embodies his genre, but he offers a satisfying take on it. His protagonists are neither he-men nor whiners, and his women are, well, women - smart and motivated and rounded out. You know - human beings. He never guts stuck in props or prostelityzing - no trench coats and no impassioned speeches about how awful poverty is. The characters get it done and live their lives; they don't try to make a big thing about it.
Hemmingson does not entirely escape genre pitfalls; throughout the stories, there's a sense that hairdressers are more real than literary agents, and dive bars more true than suburban homes. The elevation of the workingman always feels a little false coming from an educated writer, even someone like Ginsburg or Kerouac. It's a little fetishistic. Don't get me wrong - Hemmingson doesn't go deep into this. He's not supermacho. His hairdressers are often finishing MAs. But it's a trope endemic to the style, and he doesn't quite transcend it. His characters are all writers, of course, but do not use computers or e-mail. Heavens no.
In the end, I would have liked to see something more reflective - more Nabokov. I can probably put that in every review I write from now on. "A Game of Thrones is very good, but I should've liked to see Nabokov's take on the subject." Geez. The point stands, though. A lot of the stories begin and end with "isn't it fucked up this happens (at least in this fictional story of rape, underage hookers, drug abuse, adultery, incest, or violence, but probably also in true stories)?" Sometimes it's well observed, but it's not enough for me to just observe events happening. I want a little insight on top of the event, know what I'm saying?
I'm being hard on Hemmingson, though. Like I said, this book is in no way a waste of time. If you think you might like it, I can tell you you will like it. (And if you think you won't like it, you probably dislike it less than other books of its type. You still dislike it, though.) A particular standout is the first half of "What Happens When Things Happen to People," the Raymond Carver-with-a-broken-jaw story of a young couple struggling to make it in New York. The low point is probably the meandering novella, "Now That I Know What Happened, Would You Hold Me, Please, And Say This Is Love?," which unfortunately possesses the least interesting protagonist and the most use of women as external signifiers for the hero. It also takes the most pages doing it. It starts off nicely gumshoe, though.
In summary: you're not going to shoot yourself later if you don't read this, but if hardboiled pulp noir is your bag, it's a pretty agreeable way to spend a few bucks and a few hours - especially if you have a sandwich and a glass of milk to keep you company. Nice job, Dybbuk Press.
First impressions: as an object, it's nice. It's a good size and shape; the text is legibly printed and admirably free from typos and punctuation errors. The cover art works, the pages don't stick together, and when I'm reading the book at the DMV I don't worry it's going to fall apart or make me look like an idiot. That sounds like faint praise, but it's something I can't even say about The New York Times these days. This is a book I can stuff in my backpack or throw across the room without doing much damage. I can point to passages and not apologize for making someone squint. That's value.
As for the words inside the book, they're readable without being brilliant. Put more positively, my world hasn't been expanded but my time hasn't been wasted either. This Other Eden is a collection of previously published short stories full of gritty intellectuals who are pretty damn likeable - Bogart for the new millennium, basically, the kind of stuff that helps you feel, when you're down on your luck, that it's all maybe sorta romantic - or at least that your troubles really are deadly and you're not a wuss for thinking so.
I won't go so far as to say that Hemmingson transcends or embodies his genre, but he offers a satisfying take on it. His protagonists are neither he-men nor whiners, and his women are, well, women - smart and motivated and rounded out. You know - human beings. He never guts stuck in props or prostelityzing - no trench coats and no impassioned speeches about how awful poverty is. The characters get it done and live their lives; they don't try to make a big thing about it.
Hemmingson does not entirely escape genre pitfalls; throughout the stories, there's a sense that hairdressers are more real than literary agents, and dive bars more true than suburban homes. The elevation of the workingman always feels a little false coming from an educated writer, even someone like Ginsburg or Kerouac. It's a little fetishistic. Don't get me wrong - Hemmingson doesn't go deep into this. He's not supermacho. His hairdressers are often finishing MAs. But it's a trope endemic to the style, and he doesn't quite transcend it. His characters are all writers, of course, but do not use computers or e-mail. Heavens no.
In the end, I would have liked to see something more reflective - more Nabokov. I can probably put that in every review I write from now on. "A Game of Thrones is very good, but I should've liked to see Nabokov's take on the subject." Geez. The point stands, though. A lot of the stories begin and end with "isn't it fucked up this happens (at least in this fictional story of rape, underage hookers, drug abuse, adultery, incest, or violence, but probably also in true stories)?" Sometimes it's well observed, but it's not enough for me to just observe events happening. I want a little insight on top of the event, know what I'm saying?
I'm being hard on Hemmingson, though. Like I said, this book is in no way a waste of time. If you think you might like it, I can tell you you will like it. (And if you think you won't like it, you probably dislike it less than other books of its type. You still dislike it, though.) A particular standout is the first half of "What Happens When Things Happen to People," the Raymond Carver-with-a-broken-jaw story of a young couple struggling to make it in New York. The low point is probably the meandering novella, "Now That I Know What Happened, Would You Hold Me, Please, And Say This Is Love?," which unfortunately possesses the least interesting protagonist and the most use of women as external signifiers for the hero. It also takes the most pages doing it. It starts off nicely gumshoe, though.
In summary: you're not going to shoot yourself later if you don't read this, but if hardboiled pulp noir is your bag, it's a pretty agreeable way to spend a few bucks and a few hours - especially if you have a sandwich and a glass of milk to keep you company. Nice job, Dybbuk Press.
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Date: 2010-02-12 07:20 am (UTC)