I call the novel quaint because it doesn’t deal with the huge themes a reader might have expected following Cloud Atlas, which was frequently complimented by critics as “Nabokovian” because of its puzzle-like structure and its fancy wordplay. But instead of some grandiose, episodic “big book,” Mitchell went for a quiet story of a boy growing up in England in the 1980s, complete with a tacit divorce developing in the background, the minor dramas of young kids trying to figure out their place in the world, the first whispers of sex, and so on. A real bildungsroman, if you will.

Anyway, I didn’t start out to write a review of Black Swan Green. Instead, I wanted to talk about the film I saw last night and which, like Mitchell’s latest novel, I can’t stop thinking about. The movie was Jean-Luc Godard’s “Masculin, féminin,” which I saw alone at Portland State University’s 5th Avenue Cinemas (their current run is chock full of really great films. [The alone part is only interesting because it might help explain why I need to explore my reactions here instead of with another person. But also I love watching movie by myself, for what that's worth]), and the “can’t stop thinking about” refers to Godard’s ending several scenes with 1) deadly, unceremonious violence 2) a quick cut to a new episode and 3) absolutely no reference back to the violence, which the sympathetic movie-goer could expect to have made a serious impact on the characters involved. It’s an offputting and exciting choice, and one that made me think of our friend David Mitchell. Allow me to explain.

As with “Masculin, féminin,” several chapters of Mitchell’s latest book end with a bit of violence or confusion or drama whose resolution I expected to read about on the coming pages. Yet the author never returns his narrative eye to the dropped event, effectively planting the seed of dischord in the readers mind. Take for example a chapter in which the young boy/narrator’s friend crashes through the roof of a nasty old man’s house while the boys are going through the initiation rites for a local “gang.” Mitchell ends the chapter with the boy, whom we’ve come to like, in deep trouble. My expectation is that the next chapter will open with some resolution. What happened to the boy? Did the old curmudgeon cause him some serious damage? Were there dogs? And to my mind is atwitter with anticipation. But nothing. In fact, that episode is never mentioned again.

I found the exclusion in “Masculin, féminin” equally disturbing. In one memorable scene Paul, the young man at the center of the film, rides the subway with his friend Robert while a dramatic scene unfolds across from them. The scene ends when the woman, who was being threatened, pulls out a pistol and fires two shots (not on camera) and presumably one or more people on the car die. The incident disappears from the narrative instantly and the next scene begins. Or first scene, in a cafe, which closes when a couple that had previously not figured in the film appears for half a minute in which the couple yells at each other, they fight over their kid, and the woman shoots the husband with a pistol. Again, the violence is part of the film’s overall texture, sound, energy, etc., but the dramatic event itself never comes back up.

Godard’s film is underlaid with violence throughout, and the easy acceptance of the abovementioned scenes almost certainly is related to the director’s “comment” on violence, particularly the American kind (Vietnam figures heavily on the minds of his young male characters). But that’s not what interests me here. It’s the nonsequitor, the dropped events and the ensuing effect of that event’s disappearance on my ability to enjoy the film, that I care about. Especially since the result is unexpected: both in the case of Mitchell and Godard, I enjoy the story/film all the more for the unease I feel.

I never intended for this post to turn into an essay, so I’m going to let myself off the hook for a moment and not chase the reasons for my enjoyment. Being that I won’t soon forget either of these pieces of art, I’m sure the ideas behind this post will continue to grow.

So here’s the question that this post won’t hope to answer: why is the seemingly frustrating act of leaving the reader/viewer “hanging” able to excite rather than depress the experience of coming into contact with the fiction/film?

So what’s the connection between a long-deceased, politically abhorent Nobel Lauriet from Norway and a living American writer who lives and works in Spokane, Washington? Mistakes, flubs, broken promises, and reversals. Not on the part of the writers themselves. No. It’s in the characters.

This may sound exceedingly obvious at first. And in a way, I agree. Of course characters in a novel need to screw up and go against their nature. And as a reader, I possess an innate hunger for that quality in a book. But as a writer I’ve had more difficulty 1) recognizing the need for my characters to possess a quality of going against their best interest or goals and 2) injecting that quality into the book.

And after my conversation with Jess, I realize why. For so long I’ve written and thought about my novel as if it were a mathematical proof. I have ideas about the characters, what they desire, how they want to navigate the trials I toss their way, and the writing itself becomes a way to make good on those characteristics. For example, if Anson thinks of himself as an academic, he’ll find a way into the basement reading room of the library. If he wants to be kind to his brother, he’ll be kind to his brother. Proof. Wham! See my characters? They’re just as promised.

It’s clear where this is going, so I’ll skip ahead one step: isn’t the intentional interjection of error, &c. just as mathematical and calculated as the opposite problem, which I’m trying to overcome? I don’t believe so, and I’ll tell you why (since you’ve asked so nicely): When the writer proves his characters motivations through action, there’s a limited scope of what can come to pass in the novel, and the reader can see what’s coming from a chapter away. If the character’s flaws drive much of the action, both the writer and the reader can remain surprised. Anson is headed to Marcus’s house to reconcile their recent fight, but he doesn’t make it there. Where does he end up instead? The error smacks of variation whereas the proof (Anson shows up and begs forgiveness) is flat, expected, preconceived.

Hamsun is a master at harnassing the vicissitudes of his characters. Take the scene in the third part of Hunger, in which the desperate, starving narrator receives a handful of money from the clerk of a grocery store who mistakenly (?) gives him change for a bill that wasn’t his. The entire novel up to this point is consumed with the narrator’s search for money and food, and here he’s given exactly what he’s wanted? And what does he do? Immediately purchases a steak his body can’t handle (“The food began to take effect, it gave me great pain and I wasn’t allowed to keep it for very long. I emptied my mouth in every dark corner I passed, struggling to suppress the nausea that was hollowing me out afresh…”)[1]. And after a series of episodes in which the money becomes an increasing burden, he finally smacks the remaining sum into the hand of a cake vendor with whom he’d previously had an unpleasant encounter. And to bring the series to fullness, the narrator finally revisits the kind grocer and absolutely lays into him, furiously berating him for what the reader could be excused for calling a kindness. Hunger is arresting and unforgettable work.

And here I am trying to write a book that proves its own thesis. Bleh.

I’ll close this entry by saying that my new efforts are very much guided by these two types of advice: one from a talented and generous living author, one from the work of a celebrated master. Here’s to the persistent disasters our fine characters must face.

[1] Hunger. Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics. Sverre Lyngstad translation. 1998. Page 114.

So reads the introduction to the complete set of illustrated encyclopedias I just purchased at the “Community Warehouse” on Interstate Ave. This is no tepid attempt at objectivity. these are truly opinionated entries.

Take, for example, “BORNEO, The Vast and Savage Island of the Dyaks,” or “LATIN, The Mother Tongue of the Civilized World.”

There’s also the deep racism and ignorance of 1949 America, as evidenced by “JERUSALEM: The Sacred City of Two Faiths.” (I guess Islam doesn’t fully register at this time.) Or the now unbelievable entries on “NEGRO” and “INDIAN, AMERICAN.”

Scans and review of the figures will follow.