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Tenth of December

January 26, 2014 Leave a comment Go to comments

10th-December

I’ve been starting and stopping a series of books for the last couple of weeks, unable to settle on which one to read. One is Peter Brown’s Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome, and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350-550 AD, which I wrote about in a post last March. This is the book about which Gary Wills concluded, in his review in the New York Review of Books, “Every page is full of information and argument, and savoring one’s way through the book is an education. It is a privilege to live in an age that could produce such a masterpiece of the historical literature.”

Another is George Saunders’ short story collection Tenth of December. When it came out a year ago, Gregory Cowles gave it a strong review in the Sunday NYT. I didn’t pay much attention, but I did when it was selected in December as one of the NYT’s ten best, with this short blurb:

Saunders’s wickedly entertaining stories veer from the deadpan to the flat-out demented: Prisoners are force-fed mood-altering drugs; ordinary saps cling to delusions of grandeur; third-world women, held aloft on surgical wire, become the latest in bourgeois lawn ornaments. Beneath the comedy, though, Saunders writes with profound empathy, and this impressive collection advances his abiding interest in questions of class, power and justice.

Still, I’m just not much of a short story reader.

A week ago, I gave it a try, reading the opening pages of the first story via Amazon, after which I downloaded the book. (The Kindle version is only $9.) And now the current issue of the NY Review has arrived with a review (behind the paywall) by Wyatt Mason that I have barely looked at, so as not to spoil the reading. I did read this bit, which I’m lifting without context:

The potential fluffiness of the sentiment is in part what makes Saunders remarkable as a story writer: he is a dedicated ironist, but one who manages to smuggle what some might dismiss were it emanating from a pulpit or Oprah into narratives that are embraced, not ridiculed, for their frankness of feeling—particularly their frankness surrounding death.

“Rehearse death,” Epicurus tells us, and Saunders’s fiction has been preoccupied with such rehearsals.

Mason includes a quote of Saunders from a year-old NYT Magazine profile. Here’s a larger excerpt:

Junot Díaz described the Saunders’s effect to me this way: “There’s no one who has a better eye for the absurd and dehumanizing parameters of our current culture of capital. But then the other side is how the cool rigor of his fiction is counterbalanced by this enormous compassion. Just how capacious his moral vision is sometimes gets lost, because few people cut as hard or deep as Saunders does.”

And “Tenth of December” is more moving and emotionally accessible than anything that has come before. “I want to be more expansive,” Saunders said. “If there are 10 readers out there, let’s assume I’m never going to reach two of them. They’ll never be interested. And let’s say I’ve already got three of them, maybe four. If there’s something in my work that’s making numbers five, six and seven turn off to it, I’d like to figure out what that is. I can’t change who I am and what I do, but maybe there’s a way to reach those good and dedicated readers that the first few books might not have appealed to. I’d like to make a basket big enough that it included them.”

It appears I’m in for some good reading, if I don’t get distracted by the other books I’ve been dipping into.

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