The Plane Book is, as I have mentioned before in this here space, a Genre Worthy of Note (though given the definition, soon to be provided (or more technically reprovided), it is not a Genre Publishers will rush to put on the covers of the books which merit that description). The Plane Book is long, the longer the better, and something which simultaneously promises to be worth reading but not exhilarating enough to actually imagine picking up and reading hour after hour, day after day, when surrounded by other distractions (like other books). Such books are perfect for long plane trips. Ensconced in a chunk of metal hurling itself through the air, there is little to do other than keep turning the pages. It is a perfect place to read many books. As I have also mentioned before, sometimes, a book which seems like it might be a Plane Book isn’t (here’s looking at you Confederacy of Dunces). But, I am happy to report that the book soon to be mentioned not only had the appearance of a Plane Book, but may very well be the Planiest Plane Book (or should that be Plane Bookiest Plane Book? Sometimes, the vagaries of nonce words are hard to master) I have ever read. And I did read it. All of it. Which, to be honest, I would have never done, had it not been for a plane trip, including a cancelled flight necessitating an extra 24 hours of travel.
An American Tragedy,
by Theodore Dreiser, is a Gilded Age Novel, which like all Gilded Age novels,
is a long rambling story about how miserable life is in a nation of growing
prosperity. Before getting to An American Tragedy itself, a digression
on Henry James. I have long noted that since
everyone is entitled to hate one Great Books author, I hate Henry James. A Tedious Bore, beloved, by English
Professors who like perfectly crafted and thoroughly bloodless sentences and
perfectly predictable and thoroughly bloodless plots full of perfectly
bloodless symbolism and thoroughly bloodless metaphors. Given the lack of blood, one could say that
there is no life in a Henry James novel.
They bore me. After finishing An American Tragedy, I am now convinced
I should go back and read Henry James again.
After all, he can’t be as bad as Dreiser. Maybe my problem is that I read James when I was
too young to appreciate him. (I think I
last read him three or four years ago.)
Maybe now that I am older, I will realize that a lifeless novel is not
as bad as I thought it was. Sometime in
the not too distant future, the Library of America is going to sell one of the
many Henry James books to me. I will
read him again. Maybe I will stop hating
him. Maybe.
And speaking of the Gilded Age, why is everyone so down on
it, anyway? Does anyone really want to
live in the world before the Gilded
Age? Does anyone really want to live in
a pre-industrial society? Sure, there is
some fascination there, but I daresay there are very few people living in the 21st
century who would actually prefer life, on the whole, in the 19th century. But to get from the 19th to the 21st
century, the 20th century is rather essential, isn’t it? So, yes there was a great deal of disruption
and some of that disruption was unpleasant, but all in all, why would anyone
think that the transformation of America in the early 20th century
is a tragedy?
And speaking of Different Ages, one thing that doesn’t seem
to have changed is the sensational courtroom trial. Sure we have Court TV now, but Guy drowns Pregnant
Girlfriend in Remote Lake was every bit as sensational in the early 20th
century as it would be today. Prurience
has existed long before OJ met Nicole and Ronald that night in Brentwood
And…alright, enough with the asides...the book. Did I mention that An American Tragedy is long, not terribly exhilarating, and seems
like a book a literate person should have read?
Well, the first two are accurate.
You, Dear Reader, can safely skip this book and still be well-read. Yes, you should read at least one Dreiser
novel in your life—pick Sister Carrie—it’s
better, shorter, and more depressing. An American Tragedy is not well
named. At half its length, maybe it would
be well named. But, at its current
length (934 pages in the Library of America volume), the title is a bit of a
misnomer. The book drags far too much;
by the end, my overwhelming feeling was relief that the thing was over. Not only is the book long in page length, it
is long in tedium. Dreiser is a very tedious
(a very, very tedious) writer. I opened
the book at random (truly, I just opened it at random right now) and this is
the first sentence I saw (truly, first sentence):
“For there was that in Clyde’s manner the instant he learned
that it was due to a mistake that he had been recognized which caused even her
to understand that he was hurt, abashed and disappointed.”
Nine hundred and thirty four pages of prose like that.
But, it’s not all bad; indeed on balance, it’s not actually
a bad book. Dreiser is attentive to details—you
actually can feel the locales of this novel.
He also sketches his characters swiftly and deftly; one feels like one
knows the people in this book, even the relatively minor characters have definition
and three dimensions. The fall of Clyde
is interesting; he was never at a great height, so the tragedy is the death of
potential, not the Fall of a King to the gutter. Clyde could have made a happy life out of
nothing. Instead, he made a miserable
life out of nothing. At place after
place, he turns away from the happy, settled life into a life of aspirations which
will never, indeed could never, be fulfilled.
For Dreiser, that is the story of America, right there. A grasping, greedy nation which will ultimately
find itself mired in depression and woe.
It is worth nothing that there were lots of Clyde’s in the
early 20th century. Far more
Clydes than Andrew Carnegies. But, to
return to the point made above, is the existence of individual tragedy enough
to wish away the aspiration for something better? If given the choice between a) the tragedy of
Clyde and the promise of the 20th century America or b) both Clyde
and all of us living today leading lives on a 19th century farm with
no hopes of a fabulously wealthy life, which would you pick? It is immoral to pick the sacrifice of Clyde’s
happiness for the hope for something better for millions?
Another way of saying the same thing: This is far more
tragic than anything in Dreier.
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