A Book of Common Prayer by Joan Didion

I will try to be Joan Didion's witness regarding A Book of Common Prayer.  It is a great, ambitious novel.  It is not common.  Even despite its title, none of its characters have a prayer.  A not uncommon trait afflicting the characters of Joan Didion's novels. That's just Joan being Joan. Cynical and ironic. Master of irony.  Cynic's mistress.  Joan Didion.  Making me ruefully laugh calling her third novel A Book of Common Prayer.  Amen.

My first ed., but alas, a 4th printing,
as a 1st printing has so far eluded me
A trait uncommon, I should amend, in the three novels I've so far read of the five novels of Joan Didion.  The other novel's by Joan Didion I've read being A Book of Common Prayer's predecessor, Play It As It Lays (1970), and Prayer's follow-up, Democracy (1984).   Perhaps they are common traits in the two novels by Joan Didion I've not yet read; her debut, Run River (1963) and most recent, though published nearly two decades ago around the time Clinton began his second term, The Last Thing He Wanted (1996).  Maybe the characters inhabiting those novels have prayers.  But I doubt it. Knowing Joan Didion as I do from what I've read by her, I know she plays it dark. Dims the lights on hopes.  Draws the blinds on dreams.  Embodies delusions.

Or wait.  I'm being unfair to Joan Didion.   Joan Didion's characters, I should clarify, by their choices, have ruined their hopes and dreams, remained true to their delusions, and not Joan Didion.  I need to make that distinction clear.  I do not want to make the same mistake as Charlotte Douglas, waning starlet and society girl who is A Book of Common's Prayer's star.  Or more precisely, A Book of Common's Prayer's black hole.  The black hole whom, according to the narrator of the novel, Grace Strasser Mendana, "did not make enough distinctions in her life". Grace Strasser Mendana would know.  She is a scientist, but also "a student of delusion" investigating its very DNA.  A Book of Common Prayer is essentially Grace's case study of Charlotte Douglas' puzzling demise.  But it's also a study of guilt.  Grace's guilt, not Charlotte's.  But that is the subject perhaps of another novel by Joan Didion, maybe of Democracy, or maybe not.

We know Charlotte is already dead on page one.

We know that Grace will soon be dead a few pages later, after learning that Charlotte is dead and that the narrative is a remembrance.  A memorial paying homage to delusion, to Charlotte  "who dreamed her life."  Who believed even as machine guns got her in their sights, that everything in the country of Boca Grande would turn out all right.

We know, as I already said, though it bears repeating, that no one has a prayer in A Book of Common Prayer.  Pardon my redundancy, but Joan Didion says the same words and phrases twice, thrice, four times.  Sometimes, Joan Didion says the same words and phrases twice, thrice, four times in italics.  When Joan Didion says the same words and phrases twice, thrice, four times in italics, she is not merely doing so for emphasis.  But to characterize the longing or the loss anchored in a person's memory.  Or for social or political commentary.  Or to set a brooding mood.  To evoke gravitas in her prose.  For effect, powerful effect, her poignant motifs.  Much has been made of Joan Didion's much-emulated style.  Ask Bret Easton Ellis, Joan Didion's copycat in style.  Or don't.  He might not like being reminded that the style he's made famous was never his to begin with.  But Joan's.  Read Joan Didion yourself and see.  Be Joan's witness.

We know that even those who do not die in A Book of Common Prayer will not survive.  I like that paradox.  It is a representative paradox of the kind Joan Didion might write in order to imply something weightier than words can imply.  The power in Joan Didion's prose is evident beyond her singular style and terse technique.  How she craftily imbues her prose with implication after implication makes her svelte novels feel as heavy in your hands as doorstopper tomes.  One broods, as much as reads, Joan Didion.

We know that Charlotte and her first husband, Warren Bogart, have an estranged daughter, Marin, raised by Charlotte and her second husband, Leonard Douglas, wanted by the F.B.I. for her terrorism.  She's nineteen in most of Grace Strasser Mendana's remembrance of Charlotte Douglas. Nineteen, the same age as the youngest of the two Boston Marathon bombers.  But Marin didn't blow up the Boston Marathon.  Marin blew up the Transamerica building in San Francisco.  Left behind a tape explaining why.  The way a rebel parrot might explain why on a tape its left behind.

"All class enemies must suffer exemplary punishment.  When the fascist police think we are near we will be far away.  When the fascist police think we are far away we will be near ... We shall reply to repression with liberation.  We shall reply to the terrorism of the dictatorship with the terrorism of the revolutions," Marin intoned, and with a lisp we are told by Charlotte, from the tape.

We know that Marin caught the pungent whiff of revolucion when her parents lived in the fictitious, Central American nation of Boca Grande and let the house staff tend to her rearing.  Citizens of Boca Grande raising a norte americana child. Countries of constant rot and impending riot.

We know Marin's parents, Charlotte and Leonard, were probably arms dealers disguised as U.S. diplomats.  Except Charlotte, being Charlotte, wasn't cognizant of the fairly obvious fact that her second husband, Leonard, was involved in shady back room dealings with the power brokers of Boca Grande, supplying weapons and obfuscation under the watchful auspices of the U.S. government attempting to install by dubious means another regime in Central America.  Read Salvador sometime, Didion's later take on moral rot and political riot in Central America.

Back cover of first ed., circa 1977
We know that Marin had gotten herself permanently high on the anti-imperialist propaganda that festered down there in Boca Grande.  Propaganda that was fueled in part by Marin's stepfather, a veritable tentacle of the U.S. military, that man, Leonard.  Idealistic Marin, looking for a just cause to believe in but finding none in her parents, adopted new parents -- an ideology -- and chose the local screeds of "the Brazilian guerilla theorist named Marighela" as her textbooks and personal guides.  In lieu of higher institutional learning, Marin began (covertly herself -- like stepfather, like stepdaughter) a crash course in guerilla tactics, taught behind the scenes and between the lines of A Book of Common Prayer, a philosophy taught by Grace Strasser Mendana's warring brother and son, men on opposing political sides in Boca Grande; men that Marin's mother, Charlotte, shacked up with -- both of them -- in the days leading to her death, when civil war erupted yet again in Earth's anus, Boca Grande.  Leonard and Grace tried to convince Charlotte to get the hell out of Boca Grande before the latest coup began, but Charlotte had a dinner to attend at the hotel restaurant that evening.  A dinner hosted by her for herself alone.  Which was Charlotte's last supper, so to speak, her grand finale of freedom before Boca Grande's airport was shut down by rebel factions for good.

"Charlotte made not enough distinctions.  She took people's words at face value."

Yet Marin made her distinctions.  Made her judgments.  And saw the worthlessness of her parent's consumerist face values; the worthlessness of their wealth.

We know Marin's end will be life in prison or in violent death.  But where is she in the interim?

"A man who described himself as a disillusioned Scientologist called Charlotte to say that Marin was under the influence of a Clear in Shasta Lake.  A masseuse at Elizabeth Arden called Charlotte to say that she had received definite word from Edgar Cayce via Mass Mind that Marin was with the Hunzas in the Himalayas.  The partially decomposed body of a young woman was found in a shallow grave on the Bonneville Salt Flats but the young woman's dental work differed conclusively from Marin's."  At least these peculiar strangers seemed to care about Marin's whereabouts.

"Fuck Marin".

Hard to fathom Charlotte uttered those words before being fatally shot in the crossfire of Boca Grande.  Was Charlotte wrong for launching such a callous invective against her only daughter? Warren Bogart, Marin's biological father, said Charlotte was wrong about many things, but not about Marin, having been the first to say what Charlotte said about her.

The first to say, "Fuck Marin".

We know that soon after saying what Warren said about the daughter he rejected for her violent crimes, he died alone in a motel room.  So fuck Warren Bogart.  Good riddance was the general consensus regarding his death.  Readers of A Book of Common Prayer, therefore, need not anticipate a tender Douglas family reunion or reconciliation with tears.  Tear gas maybe, but not tears.

We know that the only player in Didion's grim novel, Grace Strasser Mendana, who met Marin, after her parents were dead and she was still hiding out from the F.B.I. in a cockroach-dive in Buffalo, would discover something tender, something transcendent, albeit discovered too late, upon meeting Marin.  Then Grace Strasser Mendana (named Grace for good reason), after what she learned about Marin and, more significantly, about herself, would also die.  From cancer.  And we grieve.  But we already knew this, didn't we, from the first few pages of A Book of Common Prayer?  Grace's fate. Yet still we're sad.

Portrait by Alison Perry
Knowing Grace was doomed.
Knowing Charlotte was doomed.
Knowing Charlotte's second husband, Leonard, never gave a shit.
Knowing Warren, Charlotte's first husband, always was a shit.
Knowing Marin had no chance in Hell or Boca Grande at a real childhood.
Knowing no one had a prayer is what's so sad.
Knowing all that, from the get-go, is sadder.

But knowing that bad endings begat bad beginnings in the bassackwards world of Boca Grande is barely half the sad story of A Book of Common Prayer. Because Joan Didion is that good. Relaying the bad news first and the bad news last, and whacking you repeatedly upside the head with all the bad news in between, yet keeping you guessing, still reading, still caring, thanks to Grace's dignified manner of eulogizing her misguided subjects, makes Joan's Didion's achievement as profound as the mystery of common prayer.


Finding The Last Western by Thomas S. Klise at a Thrift Store for $1.49

The Last Western by Thomas S. Klise, the first and only novel he published (who is this guy, and why is this book so expensive to buy online?) was lost, but now is found.  Oh far be it for me to boast, but why exactly are people paying $60.00 online for a second hand, mass market paperback like the one I bought below, for a paltry $1.49.  Though I need to add, for sake of accuracy and honesty, that it was a 30% off Friday 4pm -- close, at the thrift store I regularly frequent, so the final sale price for my copy of The Last Western ended up being only $1.04 plus nine cents tax, for a total purchase price of $1.13.   By the looks of the creased spine and the minor frayed corners and signs of shelf wear and heavy use on its cover (though the copy is perfectly clean as far as I can tell) I'm thinking maybe I got ripped off paying $1.13 for this Argus Communications (A Division of DLM, Inc. / Allen, Texas 75002 U.S.A.) first printing of this mass market paperback.

Does anybody know why people pay so much online for a copy like this?  Why is it out of print if it's  in such demand.  Why doesn't Dzanc reissue it?  Or Dalkey Archive?  Or Green Integer?  Walter Miller was so impressed by the book, he wrote in his review in Commonweal as if he were speaking directly to Thomas S. Klise, writing,

"Thomas S. Klise, you have written more than a novel, you have written a revolution.  Not since the first time I read Moby Dick have I so enjoyed an American novel."

And that was just the blurb on the back of the book.  Look to the left at what Walter Miller is quoted as gushing on the front cover of the book.  The "turning point ... the final climax" in American literature! No wonder people who haven't found the book, as I have, for $1.13 at the thrift store, are willing to spend fifty, sixty bucks for it online.  Damn Walter Miller has got them all hyped up for it!  Is the hype deserved?  I'm so hyped, I'm afraid to open The Last Western, let alone read it, if it is indeed worth so much.  Should I?  I mean read it?  Get my sticky fingerprints all over the unknown, alleged masterpiece?  Or maybe I should just stare at it instead?  Be like The Man Who Stared at The Last Western like it were goats.  I'm perplexed.  Why is this novel so special?  Why is it rated so high on both Goodreads and LibraryThing?  As of April 19th, 2013, it has a 4.58 rating on LT.  Granted, less than forty people even own it there (it has twenty-five ratings on GR) but those who do, the ones who've read it, think very highly of it obviously, enough to stick their neck out for it with slews of five star ratings -- even though it's been out of print for nearly forty years.  Klise died four years after its publication, which probably accounts for some of its disappearance.  But it can't account for it all, can it?  Even so, the book is clearly alive.  Some people, I fear, who spent crazy money online for it recently, for The Last Western, may become crazed hearing that I bought it for only $1.13.  I hope it's safe what I'm doing, posting this post, saying I only spent $1.13 for it....

Did I say I bought it for only $1.13?  Oh dear, silly me, those damn decimal points, holy cow how they just up and jump two places to the left of their own volition sometimes.  Yeah, that's it.  I really bought this book for $113.  See how crazy for The Last Western I am?  I can't stand people who brag about paying an absurdly low sum for it at the thrift store.


Reassessing Ninety-Nine Novels: The Best in English since 1939, A Personal Choice by Anthony Burgess

Anthony Burgess knew what he liked and why he liked it, which is a lot more than I can say about many of today's alleged critics so quick with their clichés -- "it was lyrical," or my unfavorite, "an evocative meditation on ______" -- that are absent of any originality or insight whatsoever.  Burgess, crusty curmudgeon he could be (ask on-the-cusp-of-being-nominated-for-the-National Book Award-and-Pulitzer-before-Burgess-butchered-him, Steve Erickson, in 1993!) was always original.  Always insightful.  Being an innovative novelist and being so well versed in contemporary trends and classic tastes, he knew quality writing wherever he encountered it; knew what made for great novels and what didn't, no matter how popular or obscure the book might be.  Most of the time.  He was flat out wrong about Steve Erickson.  But that's an editorial for another day....

Burgess' selections for Ninety-Nine Novels: The Best in English Since 1939, A Personal Choice (published in 1984), are often whimsical and just plain odd, eccentric picks indeed, perhaps included for sentimental as much as artistically warranted reasons?  Like when he chose ... Goldfinger? (1959) by Ian Fleming; or ... Bomber? (1970) by Len Deighton, to stand side-by-side with the gods Nabokov, Murdoch, Joyce?....

Burgess admitted as much in his introduction, where he offered persuasive rationale that was probably still too much of a stretch for snobs who must've been incredulous (if not outright incensed -- oooh that scoundrel, Anthony Burgess!) seeing when they opened their copy of Ninety-Nine Novels that ... James Bond? ... one-upped Lolita? ... poor precocious pre-teen child (hadn't she been abused enough already, Sir Anthony?), whose iconic novel named after her was inexplicably excluded from Ninety-Nine Novels.  Why oh why, Sir Anthony, did the Gormenghast novels and The Once and Future King make your arbitrary ("personal") list, but not ... The Lord of the Rings?

Nevertheless, I happen to like the oftentimes mystifying, idiosyncratic mix, the intermingling of breezy thrillers -- pure blasts to read -- with such serious lit'rachuh, and wish other critics could be just as quick to meld the proletariat masses of the genre-classes with the most respected of literature's elected on their lists -- much as FM disc-jockeys did with their playlists in FMs heyday, back before the Amazon-like mega-conglomerates seized control and segregated the airwaves, back when you could still hear the delicate sitar strumming of a Ravi Shankar segue beautifully and bizarrely into the metallic moan of "I.  Am.  Iron-man."

But on the flip side, before I read Ninety-Nine Novels: The Best in English since 1939, A Personal Choice, I'd never heard of at least half of the wonderful writers Burgess included, and have since heeded his stellar advice and "discovered" their work for myself, and so owe the late great Anthony Burgess, even though his picks often peeve me, a deep debt of gratitude.

Thank you, Sir Anthony, for revealing to me C.P. Snow's Strangers and Brothers, a twelve novel sequence begun in 1940 and completed in 1970 that reads like a blue-collar Proust ...

Thank you, Sir Anthony, for Olivia Manning's The Balkan Trilogy, 1960-65....

For Angus Wilson's largely forgotten novels as well (so forgotten why bother mentioning them here by name?), and for Wilson's introductory book of criticism on Emile Zola, published at a time in 1952 when Zola was still being snubbed by Great Britain....

Thank you, Sir Anthony, as I hope to one day "discover" even still the nearly completely unknown writer (excepting his YA novel, Tarka the Otter), Henry Williamson, and his fifteen volume opus, A Chronicle of Ancient Sunlight, (1951-1969), that's potentially pricey to obtain, but worth wheeling and dealing for, sounds like....

Thank you yet again, Sir Anthony (¡muchos gracias, mi amigo!) for the day I hope is soon that I'll finally "discover" Ivy Compton-Burnett, whom I've heard raved about beyond just you....

Good grief, I could go on foaming at this keyboard forever, Sir Anthony, thanks to you.  Thanking you for unveiling to larger audiences, Alexander Theroux's Darconville's Cat; Henry Green's Loving; Muriel Spark's The Mandelbaum Gate; Robert Nye's Falstaff; William's Sansom's The Body, but I'll stop.

For those interested in reading a complete itemization of the books listed in Anthony Burgess' Ninety-Nine Novels: The Best in English since 1939, A Personal Choice, and a lively discussion on nearly all of the books included, go here to a thread on a site that wasn't then, and still isn't now, majority-owned by Amazon.