Tag Archives: 1970s

The Resolution Project Book Thirty-One: Dog Soldiers (1974)

“‘All summer these people sweat fire, all winter they sweat the floods. Shit creeps out of the night under those sundecks, and they know it.’ He was shouting at her over the wind and the engine. ‘Fucking L.A., man – go out for a Sunday spin, you’re a short hair from the dawn of creation.’” (p. 164 Kindle version)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned if you’re the type to be bothered by that.

Dog Soldiers cover

John Converse is a writer for Nightbeat magazine, cooling his heels in Saigon as the Vietnam War winds down. Seeing a chance to make one final splash, he acquires a large quantity of heroin, which he gives to his old Marine buddy Ray Hicks to take back home on a Merchant Marine boat. The plan is for Hicks to deliver the scag to Converse’s wife Marge, but things get out of hand and Hicks and Marge are forced to go on the run through the hellish post-Manson Southern California.

Recipe for one Dog Soldiers: take Thomas Pynchon’s California landscape (as seen in The Crying of Lot 49, Vineland and Inherent Vice), add in a little bit of James Ellroy-McGuffinry (the big bag of H from The Big Nowhere and L.A. Confidential), mix in a little post-hippie solipsism and stir with a Deliverance-esque wilderness shootout finale.

I was actually pretty disappointed by this book. I don’t really know what I was expecting, though. Perhaps more Vietnam stuff? Actually, the sequences of Converse in Vietnam were pretty good. He actually seems pretty at home in the place, having dinner with other expats while bombs go off and kids get killed. It matches the sort of things you end up seeing reported in Nightbeat, a National Inquirer-esque rag devoted to the perverted and strange. It’s once the narrative focus switches to Marge and Hicks that was the problem.

Both characters have their viewpoints clouded somehow: Marge is a habitual abuser of the drug dilaudid, and eventually moves to heroin once it comes into her perception. Higgs also partakes in the H, but in his case it seems like an escape from how shitty his life has become since being deployed as a Marine in Japan. He also uses it in a Scarface-esque “stimpak” sense, to stay on his feet after incurring multiple bullet wounds. I had a difficult time sympathizing with either of these two junkies. Marge is only characterized briefly, and spend the rest of her time sleeping with Hicks at the drop of a hat essentially. Hicks is a little more interesting; he practices a sort of Zen/Samurai approach to life, which came to him after living at the mountain refuge of Dieter, the site of the novel’s climax.

I think the big reason for the lack of enjoyment I received from Dog Soldiers came from not only the fact that it is an incredibly dated piece (lacking the metatextuality, reflexivity and gags that lift Pynchon’s work out of the same morass), but also that I was struck by an insane thought while reading this book. It’s pretty much what a dark(er) prequel to The Big Lebowski would look like.

"Mark it zero, Dude!"

After this thought, I couldn’t think of anything else. The slacker journalist Converse was obviously a Jeffrey Lebowski “Year One” reboot, while the seemingly imperturbable samurai warrior Hicks was Walter Sobchak, 1974. Even the token female in the piece, Marge, is not too far off from Maude Lebowski, the femme fatale artiste. The gay mob muscle duo? Straight out of Coen bad-guy central casting. The depraved Antheil, narcotics agent and bagman? Obviously the sheriff of Malibu, 20 years earlier. I felt like I was intruding on someone’s garden party by the end of it.

SO, in conclusion, Dog Soldiers was just okay. It is no Lebowski (but what is, really?), but it’s no Blood Meridian, either. It just felt like a low-rent mashup version of many other things I’ve enjoyed previously. When it won the National Book Award in 1975, the judges must have still been working through the previous winner (Gravity’s Rainbow) and had to pick something fast.

“In the end there were not many things worth wanting – for the serious man, the samurai. But there were some. In the end, if the serious man is still bound to illusion, he selects the worthiest illusion and takes a stand. The illusion might be of waiting for one woman to come under his hands. Of being with her and shivering in the same moment. If I walk away from this, he thought, I’ll be an old man -all ghosts and hangovers and mellow recollections. Fuck it, he thought, follow the blood. This is the one. This is the one to ride till it crashes.” (p. 168, Kindle version)

Who would I recommend this book to?: People who’ve exhausted the oeuvres of Pynchon, Ellroy, Chandler and Hammett, and are looking for more hard-boiled crime stuff with a philosophical bent. People who don’t have flashbacks from ‘Nam. People who like reading about heroin addicts.

Total pages read since January 1st: 12877 pp.

Total books on the Time 100 list read since January 1st (not including ones read before 2011): 30

Next up on the Resolution Project: A Passage to India, by E.M. Forster (1924)

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The Resolution Project Book Thirty-Two: Falconer (1977)

“He seemed, in prison, to be a traveler and he had traveled in enough strange countries to recognize this keen alienation. It was the sense that on waking before dawn, everything, beginning with the dream from which he had waked, was alien. He had dreamed in another language and felt on waking the texture and smell of strange bedclothes. He bathed in strange and rusty water, wiped his ass on strange and barbarous toilet paper and climbed down unfamiliar stairs to be served a strange and profoundly offensive breakfast. That was travel. It was the same here. Everything he saw, touched, smelled and dreamed of was cruelly alien, but this continent or nation in which he might spend the rest of his living days had no flag, no anthem, no monarch, president, taxes, boundaries or graves.” (p. 32)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned if you’re the type to be bothered by that.

Falconer cover

Ezekiel Farragut is a disgraced former professor now serving “zip to ten” at Falconer Correctional Facility for the murder of his brother Eben. He is also a drug addict, kept alive by his daily does of methadone in the mornings. The book follows the entirety of Farragut’s stay at Falconer, starting from the moment he gets off of a bus to the moment he leaves. Along the way he meets many memorable inmates, like Chicken Number Two, a second-story man who put all of his criminal gains into his body in the form of tattoos and the Cuckold, a man serving time for killing his nymphomaniac wife and has a side business in selling prison “jewelery”. When he briefly falls in love with a young hustler named Jody, Farragut starts to break out of his drug-addicted, past-dwelling shell to think of how he too can live outside of the walls that surround him.

This is an excellent novel. It’s kind of funny, though, that this is the first of John Cheever’s books that I’ve come into contact with. Cheever was apparently known primarily for genteel suburban dramas and New Yorker short stories before writing this vulgar and vivid prison story. Looking a bit deeper than the modicum of research I usually do for these reviews, I found that Cheever, like Farragut, was also an addict, as well as a conflicted bisexual. Falconer, then, is the result Cheever’s inner being reaching out, breaking from the WASPy shackles that constrained his earlier work and telling a deeply personal story.

And what a punchy little tale it is. As opposed to the last book I read, James Dickey’s Deliverance, Falconer doesn’t tip toe around the subject of homosexual romance between men in a tough situation. It presents the love between two men as being completely natural, Farragut and Jody being only one of a few duos mentioned in the narrative. While the narrator of Deliverance made his affection for his best friend known primarily by describing how much he idealized his physical form, Cheever shows us these love stories from all sides, physically, mentally, with warts and all. His descriptions of the rituals men behind bars succumb to to slake their thirsts, like the gross, but kind of funny and definitely understandable “Valley” masturbation area, are matter-of-fact and honest, in a way I’d liken to Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

I also quite liked Farragut’s attempts to visualize what kind of life would be out there for him and Jody should they, by some miracle, find themselves outside of Falconer’s walls. It feels like a very mature way of looking at gay relationships and how they would have been seen at that time, somewhat akin to the ”On Ruegen Island (Summer 1931)” sequence in Isherwood’s The Berlin Stories. Farragut, before his incarceration, was a man of the world, and knew gay couples primarily from seeing them at European boardinghouses while on vacation:

“How they gratified their venereal hungers would remain, for the rest of the company, acrobatic and bizarre … [s]ocially the prejudice against them was very light; at a more profound level it was absolute. That they enjoyed on another’s company, as they sometimes did, seemed astonishing and subversive.” (p.66)

Ultimately, Farragut just cannot see a way that he and Jody could live together in the outside world, partly because of prejudice, but also because of who they are as people.

Cheever also does an excellent job of describing the mental state of an addict. Farragut’s love of methadone is the greatest love story in the book, and the metaphysical lengths he goes to to rationalize his addiction are funny, and kind of lovely in their way:

“Farragut was a drug addict and felt that the consciousness of the opium eater was much broader, more vast and representative of the human condition than the consciousness of someone who had never experienced addiction. The drug he needed was a distillate of earth, air, water and fire. He was mortal and his addiction was a beautiful illustration of the bounds of his mortality.” (p. 26)

I wouldn’t compare Falconer to Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption or anything, as it’s not really a story about an innocent man getting the justice he so desires (everyone in prison says they’re innocent). Falconer feels much more realistic in its approach to the monotony of prison life, in the thousands of minor annoyances, fights, checkups and hookups that must occur behind those walls. It put me more in mind of Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, another great novel (and Time 100 member) about men cooped up with one another who have to learn how to dream again, but written in a non-sentimental way.

The List:

1. The Adventures of Augie March

2. All the King’s Men

3. American Pastoral

4. An American Tragedy

5. Animal Farm (read before 2011)

6. Appointment in Samarra

7. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

8. The Assistant

9. At Swim-Two-Birds

10. Atonement (read before 2011)

11. Beloved

12. The Berlin Stories

13. The Big Sleep (read before 2011)

14. The Blind Assassin

15. Blood Meridian

16. Brideshead Revisited

17. The Bridge of San Luis Rey

18. Call It Sleep

19. Catch-22 (read before 2011)

20. The Catcher in the Rye (read before 2011)

21. A Clockwork Orange

22. The Confessions of Nat Turner

23. The Corrections

24. The Crying of Lot 49 (read before 2011)

25. A Dance to the Music of Time (1st Movement)

26. The Day of the Locust

27. Death Comes for the Archbishop

28. A Death in the Family

29. The Death of the Heart

30. Deliverance

31. Dog Soldiers

32. Falconer

Total pages read since January 1st: 7216 pp.

Next up on the Resolution Project: John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969)

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The Resolution Project Book Thirty: Deliverance (1970)

“What I thought about mainly was that I was in a place where none – or almost none – of my daily ways of living my life would work; there was no habit I could call on. Is this freedom? I wondered.” (p. 93)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned.

Deliverance cover

Ed Gentry is a founder and art director for a small advertising agency in Georgia who decides to go on a canoe trip down the Cahulawassee river, which is scheduled to be dammed up and turned into a lake. The impetus for the trip comes from his friend Lewis, an outdoorsy athletic type, and two other men, Drew and Bobby come along for the ride. While the scenery is gorgeous and the river exciting, the group soon finds out that they are way over their heads in this backwoods setting. After a fateful run-in with a pair of hillbillies, Ed must sacrifice all his civilized ideals if they are to make it out of the woods alive.

This is a pretty solid thriller narrative, definitely fulfilling the task of making me never want to go on a canoe trip ever again (which I’m assuming was the intention). Dickey does a very good job at getting someone like myself, who, despite  putting in a few years as a Cub Scout, would never classify as a great outdoorsman, into the mindset of men fending off the wilderness just to stay alive. The descriptions of white-water canoeing are pretty good, and he also does good work in helping the reader understand the mechanics of bow-hunting, as well as the mental state you get into with a target in your sights. I feel like I learned a bit while reading Deliverance.

The book, though, is so fraught with homosexual subtext that I almost felt embarrassed for it at points. It’s almost not even “sub” at this point, it’s basically just the text. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but it was a little distracting for Gentry to keep describing how good of shape Lewis was in all of the time:

“Everything he had done for himself for years paid off as he stood there in his tracks, in the water. I could tell by the way he glanced at me; the payoff was in my eyes … [y]ou could even see the veins in his gut, and I knew I could not even begin to conceive how many sit-ups and leg-raises- and how much dieting – had gone into bringing them into view.” (p. 102)

Burt Reynolds shirtless

They went with Burt Reynolds for the movie.

It goes on like that at many points. You could make a case for it being symptomatic of Gentry’s distaste for his own 40-year old, balding, flabby self, that maybe he’s trying to live vicariously through Lewis’ great body, but it feels deeper than that. Lewis doesn’t seem like that great of a guy to be honest, he’s a proto-survivalist who envies the mountain folk in the Georgia backwoods the simplicity they have there. He’s the reason the group gets in this situation, as he stakes out the stretch of river they are to go down, not knowing of course that some of the rapids and rocks in that area basically make it impassible, and that the hillbillies he has such a fondness for are a bit psychopathic.

The sons of the soil in question are the thing that I feel left the biggest impression on pop culture through the 1972 film (the infamous “Squeal like a pig!” line doesn’t actually appear in the book, it was apparently something Ned Beatty thought up on set). I appreciated bringing some human villains in to get the book out of the Boy’s Own adventure mould, but having them within the space of maybe two minutes start raping one party member and threaten another with the same seemed a little abrupt to me. Perhaps they should have kicked a dog first, that’s a good way to establish villain cred, but going straight to sodomy was a little excessive, and added to the strange mix of machismo-homosexuality that permeates the text. Not to mention that the combination of the book and the film have probably set city slicker/hillbilly relations back a hundred years.

Deliverance movie poster

As I mentioned before, the book was made into a highly successful feature film in 1972, starring Ed Voight as the protagonist, and Burt Reynolds’ abs as Lewis. I saw it maybe 5 years ago, and while the book made me want to check it out again, it’s not super urgent. I’d honestly rather watch director John Boorman’s follow up feature, Zardoz (I’m starting to suspect he’s got a thing for hirsute men):

The List:

1. The Adventures of Augie March

2. All the King’s Men

3. American Pastoral

4. An American Tragedy

5. Animal Farm (read before 2011)

6. Appointment in Samarra

7. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

8. The Assistant

9. At Swim-Two-Birds

10. Atonement (read before 2011)

11. Beloved

12. The Berlin Stories

13. The Big Sleep (read before 2011)

14. The Blind Assassin

15. Blood Meridian

16. Brideshead Revisited

17. The Bridge of San Luis Rey

18. Call It Sleep

19. Catch-22 (read before 2011)

20. The Catcher in the Rye (read before 2011)

21. A Clockwork Orange

22. The Confessions of Nat Turner

23. The Corrections

24. The Crying of Lot 49 (read before 2011)

25. A Dance to the Music of Time (1st Movement)

26. The Day of the Locust

27. Death Comes for the Archbishop

28. A Death in the Family

29. The Death of the Heart

30. Deliverance

Total pages read since January 1st: 7076 pp.

Next up on the Resolution Project: John Cheever’s Falconer (1977)

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The Resolution Project Book Seven: Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (1970)

What can I say about this book, really? It was very short, and mostly about stuff I couldn’t really relate to much. Definitely a lot more cheerful than the last book I read, that’s for sure (American Pastoral, for those of you keeping track at home).

Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret cover

Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume

It has actually taken far more time for me to figure out what to say about this book than it took to read it, which only took an hour and a half. Margaret is an almost-twelve year old girl who moves from New York City to the bucolic New Jersey suburbs. While she misses her grandma who remains in town and can only see her occasionally, Margaret makes a bunch of new friends, forms a club, interacts with boys and starts to notice changes in her body, all over the course of Grade Six. Like I said, this book is definitely not aimed at me, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy reading it.

Margaret’s biggest character trait is that she talks to God on a regular basis, asking his advice about things that occur in her life. She undertakes a school project over the year to try and see if she likes the Jewish approach to worship, or the Christian way, as her parents never imposed any specific dogma on her growing up (they were both sort of refugees from either side, as the mother’s Catholic family seems to have sort of disowned her for eloping and marrying a Jewish guy). There is a frankness about different approaches to religion that I didn’t think I’d see from a book published in 1970, but again, what do I know really. I can’t say I’m any great scholar when it comes to YA fiction in the broader sense, much less those books designed specifically for girls anyway, so my base of knowledge is not quite there to see if this is indeed out of the ordinary for the time period.

While the portrayal of girls at that age seems pretty spot on, with the caveat that it’s been twelve years since I was the same age, the boys in the book are presented as being inscrutable, primal forces that completely confound girl culture at every turn. The girls in Margaret’s club (the PTSs, or Pre-Teen Sensations) pass around “boy books” at their meetings, keeping a running tally of which boys they like in the class. Margaret’s afraid to put the one she actually likes in there though, as he’s a friend of Nancy’s dickweed older brother, so she follows along with the rest of them and puts the prettiest boy in the class at the top of the heap every time. The handsome guy, Philip, turns out to be kind of a douche, though.

A lot of the other parts of the book are about these young girls beginning to become young women. This was handled pretty tastefully, I found, and some parts were actually pretty funny; my favorite part of the whole book was when the girls had to skip gym class and watch a video about the changes in their bodies, which Margaret figures out pretty quickly to be more of a commercial for a specific line of feminine hygiene products being shilled for by a visiting “authority” – she vows to never buy anything by that company. I also liked how funny the kids thought it was that the grownups were telling them all this stuff they already “knew”, which of course I remember feeling as well (and, obviously, they don’t really know everything, they just think they do).

So yeah, probably the perfect book for a young girl growing up, and for parents of a young girl who need to remember what it was like at that age. Since I fall into neither of those categories I can’t say I absolutely loved it or anything, but I can see that it’s probably the best of its type. Here’s what Grossman has to say about the book, I must admit that I really had no previous knowledge of teen girl literature from the era to base my reading of the book on, so some of the revolutionariness he remarks on may not have rubbed off on me.


http://www.time.com/time/specials/packages/article/0,28804,1951793_1951936_1952095,00.html

The List

1. The Adventures of Augie March

2. All the King’s Men

3. American Pastoral

4. An American Tragedy

5. Animal Farm

6. Appointment in Samarra

7. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

Total Pages read: 1917 pp

Next up on the Resolution Project: Bernard Malamud’s The Assistant (1957). Still waiting on the Dreiser book at number 4, so I’m going to forge on ahead.

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