I found a review of Alan Lightman’s new book on the indispensable Arts and Letters Daily.
Lightman also wrote Einstein’s Dreams
So the review of his new book, where a guy goes back to his high-school reunion, hoping to see his lost love, is pretty bad. Obviously. Judging from the first blunt paragraphs of the review:
Man goes to 30th college reunion. Remembers girl who got away. Feels sad. The end.
You just got five hours of your life back.
The only reason I bring this review up (of a book I will never read!) is because of the points made at the end of the piece. Marta Salij, after talking about Lightman’s new oeuvre specifically, backs up a bit and talks about the new trend in fiction, altogether. Very insightful:
Pretty sentences, all dressed up with nowhere to go. That’s what I think is ailing fiction, has been ailing fiction for some time. I get no points for noticing. Better minds than mine have complained.
Lightman’s Reunion falls into the category of wistful musings on the sadness of life, dressed up in novel form. Another category is snarky commentary on the shallowness of modernity, dressed up in novel form: Key practitioners are David Foster Wallace, Dave Eggers, Jonathan Franzen, et al. There are other categories, but it fatigues me to list them.
Here’s what I do want points for: These are not novels. They are essays, maybe even newspaper columns, sometimes glorified diary entries, stretched out to unconscionable length and price.
How about a novel dressed up in novel form, huh? With characters who face conflicts (you remember those from ninth grade: Man vs. Nature, Man vs. Man, etc.), who act, suffer and grow. I could really sink my teeth into one of those right about now.
