Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense.
--Mark Twain

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

--Elmore Leonard

Ellen asked me if I still had my copy of The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach. This simple request cut me to the bone. How could she want to read it? I had already told her that I thought it was a terrible book. No actually, I think what I told her was that it was a pretentious, artless and absolutely terrible book. And whatever redeeming features it contained were more than offset by the inane, inaccurate and totally gratuitous references and associations to Melville and Moby Dick. I previously mentioned the book here and said that I would abide by the " if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing" motto, but I'm changing my mind...cause Ellen now says she wants to read it and by ignoring my warnings of the dangers ahead, she's reignited my urge to jump on a soapbox and vent.


I go to the bookshelves to pull it down for her and I don’t see it anywhere. Did I give it away? And if I did, why don’t I remember? And to whom would I give it? I certainly wouldn’t have recommended it to a friend.  I must have given it to someone else to whom the  hype and "buzz"  drowned out my personal advice. And I know many people (like Ellen) who would consider a big red stop sign from me to be the equivalent of a bright green light.  Such is my unearned reputation for chronic contrarianism.

Writing poorly is not one of the deadly sins, and I’m generally inclined to forgiveness—especially when I sense that the writer is sincere and doing his best --and I don’t consider literary cluelessness to be any more dangerous a threat to humanity than short order cooks without hair nets.
But perhaps in some way I actually do feel some sense of personal violation when I encounter works like the one in question (damn, I don’t even like having to type the words of the title) which make me feel compelled to say something on behalf of the dutiful (and more deserving) servants of the craft.  Now I know how Pat Metheny felt when he heard the Kenny G album that rudely insulted the music and memory of Louis Armstrong. You can see him on YouTube...he's so angry it looks like he's gonna burst a blood vessel.

And so I will try to state my case with a brief analysis of a single paragraph. I think it’s fairly representative of most of what you’ll (repeatedly) encounter in the work of which we speak--but will not name again.

I should stop drinking coffee too, he thought. He’d almost thought 'give up' coffee, but that was a misleading phrase. There seemed to be meaning in it, meaning that didn’t exist. When you gave something up, who or what did you give it up to? Giving something up implied that your sacrifice made sense, and Henry knew this was untrue. The days did not accumulate and turn into something better than days, no matter how well you used them. The days could not be used. He did not have a plan. He’d stopped playing baseball and eating beans and now he would stop drinking coffee. That was all.

Let’s start at the top with a hanging curve-- as he thought one thing and almost thought another. How does one almost think something? I’ve had thoughts that went unspoken, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a thought that went un-thought. This is either absurd or way too deep for me. Strike one.

There seemed to be meaning in it, meaning that didn’t exist.

Next pitch is a change up and it freezes him. First he almost thinks a thought  and now he almost discerns meaning that doesn’t exist. Really? But I’ll concede one point…there is no meaning here that I can discern either. Still, oh and two

When you gave something up, who or what did you give it up to? Giving something up implied that your sacrifice made sense, and Henry knew this was untrue.

Wow, a slider in the dirt, but he swings and he’s outta there --with a “giving up” of something that implies a sacrifice (why?) that makes sense that is untrue. Just give me the hemlock now. What’s the point here? Is he just having fun with semantics or is he trying to say something? I’m stumped. Harbach does this kind of thing all through the book in addition to his annoying habit of  blurring the lines between what he's thinking and what his characters are thinking.  The net result is that we never really get to know the characters because the author keeps getting in their way and we come to realize that he has no intention of giving them any kind of inner life that we can relate to. Instead we have to spend an inordinate amount of time listening to Harbach pondering imponderable nonsense. Ok, who's up next?

The days did not accumulate and turn into something better than days, no matter how well you used them.

And if days did accumulate and turn into something better than days, (assuming one used them well) what would that something better be?  Dribbler to the mound... and he's out.

He did not have a plan. He’d stopped playing baseball and eating beans and now he would stop drinking coffee. That was all.

That was all? Then why all that other stuff? I learned nothing from the entire paragraph except that he stopped playing ball, eating beans and drinking coffee. Everything else was just foggy minded filler. And after reading a hundred pages of this stuff, I realized that the author is so taken with the rhythm of his enigmatic “paradox inside a conundrum” Two Step that he doesn't even care if it has all the grace of a “No soap, radio” Cha Cha.  Game called on account of spectator indifference.

I recall hearing a story about Ethan Coen, who was in rehearsals with one of his plays, and the director came up with a gag that didn’t seem to work for anyone who saw it—and the director said it didn’t matter if anyone didn’t get it…that was what was so cool about it. And Coen said “If nobody gets it then what the fuck is it?”

 And now that I think about it some more, it really does almost equate to something worse than cooking without a hair net. Not caring sufficiently about one’s characters is unpardonable in a writer of fiction. It’s like a musician not caring about the melody —or an actor saying he doesn’t care about the person he’s portraying. Then what does he care about? Well, I guess that’s obvious, he cares about himself--and showing off his way (No Way) with juggling the elements of the novel--rather than simply writing a coherent story. Not for a moment while reading this book did I feel anything for any of the characters. They weren't human--they were abstract constructs used as vehicles for transporting the rusty parts of a flimsy fairy tale.  And when some of them just disappeared without warning or explanation, I didn’t miss them or even notice sometimes. And after 200 pages I gave up on them---because in essence, they ceased to matter.

Now maybe if this book hadn’t been so hyped and promoted for so many months I might be more forgiving, but it was-- and if you go to Amazon and check out the reader reviews you’ll find that I am not alone in my disdain for both the book and the ballyhoo surrounding it. It reeks of industry corruption and cynicism of the most transparent sort. John Irving, whom one may accuse of many literary faults-- but never neglect or disrespect for his characters, was one of the many literary lions heaping praise on this unlikely “modern classic” candidate . I can only assume that it’s just part of an industry game with money being made and spread around for the benefit of all participants and that I’m the one who’s naïve in thinking that there should be a line somewhere that needs to be drawn and never crossed. I’m hoping the whole thing is a giant hoax perpetrated by some savvy soul for the purpose of teaching us all a lesson a la The Emperors New Clothes…but sadly, I’m not optimistic.



Was going to post an Emperor's New Clothes pic here...but prefer this one. It's the huge (30'x8') Maxfield Parrish mural that he created for the King Cole Bar at The St. Regis Hotel. (Stuffy old money joint that I was dragged to once for business) Story has it-- there was an unwritten competition among illustrators of the day to see who could sneak A Fart into one of their public works. Supposedly Parrish won this contest with this Old King Cole mural. Not only is the king smiling a secret smile but check out the reactions of his flanking knights. More detailed views below... Click on em to enlarge.