The Books: “Mysteries of Pittsburgh” (Michael Chabon)

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

Mysteries of Pittsburgh – by Michael Chabon. I wrote a bit about my regard for this book, Chabon’s first novel, here – and I’m not surprised, but I even reference the “scene” from the book I’m excerpting below. It’s been years since I’ve read the book – but I remember the scene vividly – to me, it’s one of the great introductions of a character. We keep hearing her name at the party – “Jane Bellwether” – “we need to find Jane Bellwether” … and our narrator has never met her, has no idea what the big deal is … or what exactly it is that Jane can give them (some of the details are lost to me) … so they wander through this raging party, looking for Jane. And then: she appears. Awesome introduction of character.

Michael Chabon was 24 years old when his book came out. And for once – time has shown that he was deserving of all that hype. He was hailed as the next great American novelist. And whaddya know. He is. How often does that happen?? I love his writing so much – and it’s cool to know that I was there from the beginning. I freakin’ LOVED Mysteries of Pittsburgh – I still remember where I was when I read it (I think it might have been one of the first books I read after moving to Chicago – a vivid crazy time … and a perfect book to read, anyway, when you’re in the middle of a transition). Then when Mitchell arrived to Chicago – I passed the book off to him. He HAD to read it! He read it – and I had such a good time, reliving it through his eyes. It just goes to show you that you don’t have to re-invent the wheel. You don’t have to come up with the next best thing. But you had BEST know how to write! Mysteries of Pittsburgh is a coming of age novel, plain and simple. A group of college friends navigate, fight, fuck, fall in love, cheat, talk, drink beer, make mistakes, experiment sexually – things shift, move, break, meld … No big revelations in terms of plot. It is what is expected. But the writing. Even from the first sentence:

At the beginning of the summer I had lunch with my father, the gangster, who was in town for the weekend to transact some of his vague business.

A great first sentence. I must read on. It’s an attention-getter, to be sure, but in general I find that Chabon’s style does not call too much attention to itself – and yet it is undeniably beautiful writing. Can you tell I adore him? I adore him even more because he has actually developed in such an interesting way (what happened to him AFTER Mysteries of Pittsburgh and before Wonder Boys is almost as interesting as one of his books – fascinating) – He was hailed as this new writer of unbelievable promise, and for once the powers-that-be got it right.

So about the excerpt .

You know people who are like celebrities – even though they’re not famous to the world? People who are famous in a certain circle … who are revered and watched and admired and envied – in the same way that celebs are? Someone who, even though they are not famous, they have star quality? It may be more of a thing that happens when we are young … you know, like the popular kids in high school and how they were like famous people to those of us not popular. We knew who was dating who, we took note of what they wore, we were always aware of them – even if we were sitting at another table, or across the room. They were KNOWN.

Whether or not this attention was warranted is irrelevant. It’s what happens.

And sometimes … (like with my friend from grade school and high school Keith M.) – the person is a star. They have that magic THING about them, that aura … people want to be near a person like that, people vie for attention, or status … they just want to be CLOSE to the magic. The glow. Whatever ineffable thing this star-quality person has.

It’s what big movie stars must feel all the time.

Jane Bellwether and her boyfriend – whose name is Cleveland – both have that.

They are famous. They are different. Cleveland is a great character – my favorite in the book – a wild guy who rides a motorcycle – and who is seen as the key to all things good and right. He is beloved. (I need to read the book again.)

But here is our first glimpse of Jane – her name, though, has already come up multiple times. Because she’s famous. “Where’s Jane?” “We need to talk to Jane.” “You need to meet Jane.”

So here she is.

Excerpt from Mysteries of Pittsburgh – by Michael Chabon.

To find Jane Bellwether, who acquired a last name and a few vague features during our search, we passed out of the jumping seraglio and through a long series of quieter, darker rooms, until we came to the kitchen, which was white. All the lights shone from overhead, and, as is sometimes the case with kitchens at large parties, an unwholesome-looking group, all the heavy drinkers and eaters, had convened in the fluorescence. Its members all lookeda t us as we entered the kitchen, and I had the distinct impression that a word had not been said in there for several minutes prior to our arrival.

“Say! Hi, Takeshi,” Arthur said to one of two blenched Japanese who stood near the refrigerator.

“Arthur Lecomte!” he yelled. He was well more than half in the bag. “This is my friend Ichizo. He goes to C-MU.”

“Hi, Ichizo. Glad to meet you.”

“My friend,” Takeshi continued, his voice rising, “is very horny. My friend say that if I were a girl, he would fuck me.”

I laughed, but Arthur stood straight, looked deeplyl, beautifully sympathetic for perhaps a tenth of a second, and nodded, with that fine, empty courtesy he seemed to show everyone. He had an effortless genius for manners; remarkable, perhaps, just because it was unique among people his age. It seemed to me that Arthur, with his old, strange courtliness, would triumph over any scene he chose to make; that in a world made miserable by frankness, his handsome condescension, his elitism, and his perfect lack of candor were fatal gifts, and I wanted to serve in his corps and to be socially graceful.

“Does any of you know Jane Bellwether?” said Arthur.

The louts, so morose, so overfed and overliquored, said no. None looked at us, and it seemed to me, in the exaggerating way that things seemed to me that exaggerated evening, as though they could not stand the sight of Arthur, or of me in his magic company, in our Technicolor health and high spirits, in our pursuit of the purportedly splendid Jane Bellwether.

“Try on the patio,” one, some kind of Arab, finally said, through a white moutful of shrimp. “There are many people sporting out there.”

We came out into the yellow light of the back porch, that estival old yellow of Bug Lite, which had illuminated the backyards and soft moth bodies of so many summers past. It was untrue; there were not many people sporting on the murky lawn, though a large group had gathered with their drinks and their light sweaters. Only one young woman sported, and the rest watched her.

“That’s Jane,” Arthur said.

She stood alone in the dim center of the huge yard, driving imperceptible balls all across the neighborhood. As we clunked down the wooden steps to the quiet crunch of the grass, I watched her stroke. It was my father’s ideal: a slight, philosophical tilt to her neck, her backswing a tacit threat, her rigid, exultant follow-through held for one aristocratic fraction of a second too long. She looked tall, thin, and, in the bad light, rather gray in her white golf skirt and shirt. Her face was blank with concentration. Thik! and she msiled, shaking out her yellow hair, and we clapped. She fished in her pocket for a ball and teed it.

“She’s plastered,” a girl said, as though that were all the explanation we might require.

“She’s beautiful,” I heard myself say. Some of the spectators turned toward me. “I mean, her stroke is absolutely perfect. Look at that.”

She smashed another one, and a few moments later I heard the distant sound of the ball striking metal.

“Jane!” Arthur shouted. She turned and lowered her shining club, and the yellow light caught her full in the face and fell across the flawless front of her short skirt. She put a hand to her forehead to try to make out the caller among us shadows on the patio.

“Arthur, hi,” she said. She smiled, and stepped through the grass to him.

“Arthur, she’s whose girlfriend?”

Half a dozen people answered me.

“Cleveland’s,” they said.