I haven’t enjoyed a work of contemporary fiction this much in a long time. It’s engrossing, funny, poignant, smart & beautiful. Crain writes for various publications, including The New Yorker, often on topics related to 19th century American literature and culture. He has an interesting blog. This is his first novel. I’m very curious what he’ll do next.
Here’s the opening paragraph:
It was October, and the leaves of the oaks around the language school had turned gold and were batting light into its tall windows. A young Irish woman was seated alone in the teacher’s lounge. She had made herself a cup of tea on the range in the corner, and she was opening a tangerine on a paper napkin, with hungry carelessness.
The setting is not Ireland—after all, if it were, the young woman’s nationality wouldn’t need to be named—but Prague. The time, we’ll learn, is almost a year after the Velvet Revolution. The young woman, Annie, is not our protagonist, as we might have expected. That claim goes to Jacob Putnam, introduced laconically in the next paragraph—“one of the American teachers walked in”—and interestingly unnamed for the next couple of pages. In addition to being American, Jacob has just graduated from Harvard and only recently come out, mostly to himself, as gay. Although it’s not immediately apparent in the novel’s initial interaction, Annie will become Jacob’s close friend, a member of the group of young people, mostly foreigners, whom the novel follows. Jacob is always center stage, but the group is important, and one of the book’s many nostalgic pleasures is remembering how people used to meet up and get together (or fail to do so) before we could contact everybody all the time. (Jacob rents a basement suite from a Czech family; the stratagems required to be able to use the family’s phone is a minor, amusing subplot.)
Let’s return to that opening paragraph. Referring to the school where Annie and Jacob and some of the other characters work, a bit desultorily, the novel, already in its first sentence, introduces the topics of communication and language. In so doing, it encourages us think about the book’s own language. The paragraph is representative: here and elsewhere the prose is careful, quiet, syntactically straightforward. The novel is resolutely realist in its depictions. I hope I haven’t made the style sound safe or uninteresting. Crain is not a flashy writer, but he is an elegant, thoughtful, and sometimes sneakily dazzling one.
Consider the marvelous touches apparent in the opening—the use of “batting,” for example, odd not only because it anthropomorphizes the leaves, but also because of what it has the leaves do. We usually say that light shines through leaves. But here the leaves do the work—except it’s gentle, playful work. (The best kind of work, or not work at all?) “Batting” is a funny word: it ought to be violent (most of the things you do with a bat are pretty forceful), but it actually signifies lightness and ease. Those are not qualities we would ascribe to the passage’s final phrase—Annie opens the tangerine with “hungry carelessness.” Whose description is this? The omniscient narrator’s? Mostly there is no such thing; the narration usually hews closely to Jacob’s perspective. (There are only a handful of moments when we know things he doesn’t yet.) But how could this be Jacob’s free indirect discourse when he hasn’t yet entered the room or the novel? Is the description a moment of self-criticism on Annie’s part? Wherever it comes from, the content of the phrase—suggesting abandon, need, urgency—is at odds with the controlled quality of the prose, and it gets at the sense the book’s characters have of having been given the opportunity, by virtue of their privileged Western backgrounds, to live all they can, to devour new opportunity, to enjoy their relative ease in this beautiful city in which they can think endlessly about themselves, each other, art, love, life, etc. Yet even when the characters do things that are hungry or careless or both—when their innocence is disabused, when a lover takes up with another, when they argue, usually out of their depth, about politics—they do so gently, if not always kindly.
At least a few readers seem to agree that the book isn’t like much else in American fiction today, and the decorum, for lack of a better word, of the book’s characters and events—which is real, but which I fear might give the wrong impression of the book as precious or twee—might account for that response. I’m thinking of some of the blurbs on the jacket—though when one of those writers compares this book to Musil’s Törless, a remarkable if disagreeable novel with which Crain’s has absolutely nothing in common, I have to wonder—but also, more substantially, of Norman Rush’s review in the NYRB. Rush has a lot of shrewd things to say, though I think his conviction that the novel is first and foremost about the idea of utopia says more about his own fiction than about Crain’s.
Although I don’t read very much American fiction, I’m inclined to agree the book seems unusual. For one thing, it’s not about America, or, rather, it’s about America in the way Henry James’s novels of Americans abroad are. Which is another way to say that it’s really quite a bit about America, but, more than James, even, it takes seriously the foreign surroundings in which the Americans abroad find themselves. I won’t say too much about James here, partly because I don’t actually know his work that well—enough about The Ambassadors to know that it’s in the background here, a kind of intertext Crain gestures to—but mostly because the book is ahead of me. It references the Master, but suitably ironically: Jacob knows James only through an essay about a famous James’s story that he read in college (never named, but clearly Sedgwick’s “The Beast in the Closet”).
We can see here how delicate and slippery the novel’s presentation of its protagonist is: we are allowed to feel equal to, or possibly a little bit superior to, Jacob, in this moment and others. But we feel for him too. We aren’t asked to look down on him. The book doesn’t have a condescending bone in its body. At the end of the book, on the bus from Prague to Paris, Jacob luxuriates in the dramatic, rather selfish thought: “Now I know what it feels like to go into exile.” He doesn’t—his life has been nothing but privilege and safety. And yet the book doesn’t just make fun of him; Jacob is losing something real here, the sense of possibility afforded him by his time abroad. This is what I mean when I say that the most central thing about this book is its generosity.
Maybe that generosity comes from its sense that books are central to life. In general, it’s a book that loves books. Jacob finds out that he read the same children’s book as a unrepentant Danish Communist with whom he otherwise has nothing in common: “Love for the book lay sudden between them, an awkward intimacy.” Coming across a store filled with English-language books at British prices, Jacob “fell into a reverie of imaginary possession; he was visiting the books in his future library; they were prisoners he could not yet free.” He even meets his Czech lover, the wry, sad, and life-affirming Milo, at a bookstore. (Milo gets a lot of good lines: when Jacob’s pet hamster dies, just days after Jacob finds an exercise wheel for it, Milo suggests it be read “as a warning to Americans.”) But books, as these lines suggest, lead to desire. Desire—sometimes for sex, but more often, in the hungry way of the opening passage, for experience—finds its way into every part of the text. Here are Jacob and his friend Melinda, who experiences perhaps more than anyone else in the book, sitting in a courtyard: “The grass at their feet fluttered, like a boy’s hair being smoothed.” Their conversation is just as poised between comfort and the erotic. Later, when Jacob’s friend Carl, on a visit from the States, meets Melinda, his “silly talk” takes on more flourish than usual: “He seemed to be laying it out for Melinda’s unacknowledged admiration, and perhaps comfort, like a coat over a puddle, to be taken for granted.” I love that coat—to say nothing of that devastating “unacknowledged.”
What does it mean for a book that seems to do everything so right, so elegantly, to be named after things that go wrong? What are necessary errors? Mistakes we can’t help but make? False solutions that turn out to be solutions, such that we’re glad we made them, can’t see how we could have done otherwise? Crain’s title is like his book: a bit opaque, prompting reflection, increasingly pleasing at least for those who find pleasure in mulling things over.
As I’ve said, Jacob and some of the others work as language teachers. Some of the book’s necessary errors are linguistic, the kind that come up when one is learning another language, or when one lives between languages. Jacob is always telling his students what native English speakers typically say, which means he is put in the position, necessarily faintly ridiculous, of correcting others. One of the book’s pleasures is its depiction of the happy distortions of non-native speakers. And that goes both directions. Crain gives us Jacob’s hesitant Czech in a pleasingly formal English (which has something, I gather, to do with the Czech language, and something with Jacob’s haltingness). The inadvertent poetry of the second-language speaker sometimes seems to infect the novel’s own prose, like in the “batting” example from the beginning.
Maybe it’s not surprising I loved the book: in many ways I’m its target audience. Although I’m neither American (yet) nor Harvard-educated nor gay, I was about the same age as the book’s characters when the Wall came down, and I spent the year immediately afterward in Europe (though in Switzerland, so I didn’t experience first hand that sense of dreamy possibility and anxiety Crain depicts so well). And I too wanted to write and didn’t write much and relished the chance that living in a different place gave me to become a different person. But it does Crain’s novel a disservice to talk of a “target audience.” To be out of fashion or out of step with prevailing trends, if that’s in fact was this book is, could of course also be a kind of branding. But I think the novel will appeal to all sorts of readers, especially those who have ever plunged into a foreign country or language. That’s certainly a privileged position to be in, and maybe those not materially fortunate enough to have been able to do their growing up abroad, to say nothing of those who have been forced or chosen to live in a place not their home for a lifetime rather than an extended visit might find this novel a bit precious. But Crain’s sure narrative touch means that the book is always just a little bit more critical of its characters than they are themselves (and they’re hardly narcissists). The striking thing to me—what really separates the book in a good way from the cultural climate of the day, is that its criticism is so kind, so affectionate. Its irony is gently, not scathing, but it cuts all the more deeply for that.
My only visit to Prague was in 1992; the economic and political situation might have solidified a bit from the one depicted in the novel, but my (rather hazy) memory of the city, where I only stayed a few days, was of a place still between things. I remember entering a little grocery. Each aisle—there were only three or four, narrow, not exactly laden with goods, but not bare either—was patrolled by an employee. I reached up to take something from a shelf and received a stern rebuke. Apparently I wasn’t to do that myself. The employee took down whatever it was and placed it in my basket. At the time, I could only think of this as at best bemusing and at worst as inefficient and hopeless. But thanks to Crain’s lovely novel I’m reminded by how little my younger self knew, how clueless he was about the consequences of the changeover for Czechs and Slovaks, how spoiled and sheltered (complaisantly, vaguely bien-pensant liberal though it may have been) his perspective on life was—and yet also how open that younger self was to new experiences, how fearful and yet how brave, how in thrall to the idea that nobody here knows who I am supposed to be, and therefore how not entirely to be condemned from the position of hindsight by the putatively older and wiser self I am today.
Thanks for this interesting and (for me, resonant) review of Crain’s novel. I don’t understand why everyone is not reading this book. I am doing my best, as I work in an independent bookshop, so I am pushing this book onto people, whether they want it or not. (I also like your blog name, as my ancestors farmed a spot of land overlooking the Thunersee with Eiger, Mönch, and Jungfrau in the distance.)
Thanks for the kind words, Bruce. Glad to hear you’re hand-selling the book. (I was a bookseller myself for many years and that’s the part I miss most.) It doesn’t say much good about the state of American literary fiction that this book has gone relatively under the radar.
Meant to ask before–what else are you hand-selling these days?
Here are some books I would possibly hand-sell, depending on my assessment of what appeals to the customer (always a tricky business):
Cloud Atlas, The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, David Mitchell
Cryptonomicon, Neal Stephenson
The Long Ships, Frans Bengsston
Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, Michael Chabon,
The Killer Angels, Michael Shaara
The Hare with Amber Eyes, Edmund de Waal
The Lost, Daniel Mendelsohn
The Signal and the Noise, Nate Silver
Why Does the World Exist, Jim Holt
To End All Wars, Adam Hochschild
This Republic of Suffering, Drew Gilpin Faust
I really love The Lost, and am considering teaching it this fall, though it’s awfully long. I have a few of these on my shelves waiting to be read (de Waal, Hochschild)–this list is a good spur to pull those out. Enjoyed Cloud Atlas a lot, also have Thousand Autumns around here somewhere, ought to get to that too. The title I’m most curious about on your list is the Bengsston. I’ve no resistance when it comes to those NYRB classics. Chabon has always disappointed me: the first half of his books is always so much better than the last. He creates these wonderful set-ups, and then doesn’t seem to know what to do with them.
I remember well the peculiar species of sussing out that is hand-selling. There were some books I didn’t care for or even know that I could hand sell easily, some that I loved that I could hand sell with pleasure, and then some that I loved but just couldn’t hand sell, except to a very unusual customer. Where is your store, do you mind my asking?
The store is in Grand Marais, Minnesota. (I am not the owner. It is called Drury Lane Books; the owner is named Drury).
I was put on to the Bengsston book by a customer, When it came into the store, an intro by Michael Chabon caught my attention. I was a little skeptical that a story about vengeful, blood-thirsty Vikings would be very appealing. But the story is done with much wit. You don’t get many Viking stories that are witty. And naturally the book plays well to our customers, many of whom are of Scandinavian heritage. I found the book quirky and amusing.
… I loved but just couldn’t hand sell, except to a very unusual customer.
Yes…e.g., Henry James, who is one of my favorite authors, is a difficult sell. On those rare days I can actually convince someone to try Henry James, I am so happy. Unfortunately it seems that everyone who wants to read James already has; and those who don’t are not very likely to be convinced to give it a try.
Hi Bruce–Not sure if you’re still following the blog, but am curious about your favourite books read in 2014, if you care to share.
I finished reading the novel the other day, and as you know from a comment I posted on Facebook, I was loving the book just as immediately as you were it seems: from the very first page. Everything that you observe about the book rings true for me as well. It is a novel for our generation, those who came of age in the late-1980s and in the midst and wake of the fall of communist regimes and the dawn of global capitalism. It is a story about displacement, as much as it is a story of transition, or better, about the ways in which each of these two phenomena can at times be indistinguishable from each other. Yet as your review makes clear, it is also a document of a kind of travel and living abroad, of being temporarily expatriated, that seems to belong to a prior historical period and existential moment. Part of that is captured by what I take to be one of the many possible meanings of “necessary errors.” Namely, the error of feeling that one has arrived, discovered a sense of a bond or unity, is finally at home, or in love. They are “errors” because they overlook (momentarily, for a year, for a lifetime, perhaps), the contingency, the separation, and the inevitable translation that is the very condition for these moments to have meaning in the first place. They are “necessary” because without their built-in opening onto loss and estrangement, we would remain in-curious, unimaginative, stuck, perhaps trapped even. Writing is one name for one such “necessary error”—both as “cause” and “effect.” A way to discover that one is never “lost in translation,” even as a single departure can feel like an exile.
There is so much to say and admire and celebrate about this exquisitely written book. Really, I have barely begun to come to terms with it. But as I continue to think about it, and as I go back to re-read whole passages of it, I will want to test my sense that as it approaches its end, it seems to become more philosophical, as though a certain maturity and wisdom has begun to coalesce. Yet with a keen sense that as the story continues to unfold beyond the story (I loved the debates about “story” amongst the writers in the book club) these moments of insight will also eventually reveal themselves as necessary errors, yet no less pleasurable for having been experienced (and written, and read).
John, thanks for such a brilliant reading of this lovely novel. I’m particularly taken with your reading of the titular phrase, not only in terms of what you specifically say about them but also as a way of reading. What I’m trying to say here is that I really appreciate the way you use a highly theoretical methodology to read what might at first seem a formally conventional text. (In other words, a text needn’t be written in the late modernist style of a Blanchot or Duras to benefit from your way of reading. One of the things this suggests to me is that Crain’s novel might be what I like to call uncannily experimental–that is, the strangest text is the one, like Freud’s uncanny, that at first appears the most familiar.
On another note, I am wondering if you have read Hollinghurst’s The Line of Beauty. I haven’t, yet, but I was just reading Jenny Davidson’s brilliant reading of it in her new book on sentences, and it made me wonder what might come of comparing these two novels.
Dorian, I read The Line of Beauty when it came out (I just had to check in order to remind myself that that was ten years ago), but your comments on Davidson’s reading of it and its possible comparison with Necessary Errors, makes me want to look at it again. For now, I can say that back then, I really enjoyed reading it, and remembering finding it to be very poignant, unsettling in its revelatory honesty and at times quite a turn-on.
Books I enjoyed in 2014
In addition to Necessary Errors, I would add the following nine books, in no particular order:
All the Light We Cannot See (Doerr)
Telegraph Avenue (Chabon)
Go Down, Moses (Faulkner)
Quartet in Autumn (Pym) (re-read)
Last Chronicle of Barset (Trollope) (re-read)
Fall of the House of Dixie (Levine)
Tenth of December (Saunders)
The Good Lord Bird (McBride)
The Things They Carried (O’Brien)
Thanks for sharing. I’ll be reading the O’Brien soon, as I’m advising a Senior Thesis on it next semester. And I plan to get to the Saunders and the Pym in 15. I’m most curious, though, about the Doerr. The subject matter certainly appeals to me, but I’ve been put off by a suspicion (totally unsubstantiated, don’t know where it comes from) that the writing will be in that Ondaatje precious mode that makes me tired. But your recommendation encourages me. What did you like about it?
I actually listened to the book. This year a YMCA opened up in our little town and I decided to undertake an exercise regimen. The only thing that makes such tedium tolerable is to listen to a good book. The Doerr book was recommended to me by a trusted reading friend. What I like about the book was its story and the engaging characters. The story is told from multiple POV and from different points in time, which eventually, of course, converge and then diverge. This was handled quite elegantly by the author. I do know some reviewers were slightly put off by what they felt was the occasional over-wrought prose, but I did not notice this. Also, some did not like the very small chapters. This also did not bother me. I have found that listening to a book makes a different experience from reading it. When listening, there’s no skimming over the prose, and the length of the chapters doesn’t matter much.
This book became a word-of-mouth hit at the bookstore and we have sold quite a few copies even though it is available only in hard cover. Then it landed on a New York Times list, the result being that our distributor ran out of stock, and we could not get any for the Christmas season.
I know what you mean by that “precious mode.” I read The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng this year. I found my eyes starting to glaze over when I got to the fifth or sixth description of the misty rain falling on the delicate lotus petals. I recognize that my bias is cultural but I seemed unable to get past it.
How well I remember distributors running out of the season’s hot book… in general, I don’t miss bookselling, but I do get nostalgic about the camaraderie of the holiday rush (staff v world sort of thing).
Interesting about the audio book. I’ve never gone that route–when people read to me I tend to get sleepy but maybe I’d respond differently to professional readers.
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