So I'm on page 460 or so of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, one of those books I've been "meaning to read" for about a year now, and have delayed out of some perverted fear that I'll actually end up hating the thing. I can safely report that I'm thoroughly enjoying it, although the section I'm in now seems a bit to me like Chabon had the following conversation with himself:
Rational Chabon: Oh shit, I just killed off a major motivating factor in the life of one of my main characters. How do I recover from this one?
Chabon the Writer: Hmmm ... Antarctica!
Rational Chabon: Antarctica? You have got to be fucking kidding me. There's nothing IN Antarctica. This book will keel over and die of hypothermia.
Chabon the Writer: Exactly. There's nothing in Antarctica. So I can just make up a bunch of shit until my character has a better idea of how he's going to get himself into my well-conceived ending.
Well, whatever. I suppose I forgive Chabon for this nadir-centric diversion, as long as he does end up getting everyone back in New York where they belong by the end. The only other thing that's bugged me is Chabon's incessant cataloguing of things. It's cute the first time, but by the fiftieth time you're forced to read one of those "insightful" lists of things, it gets pretty old.
Other than those nits, though, a very enjoying read. I am considering it as a contender for the never-to-be-awarded title of the "Great American Novel," if just for the incisive and patent manner in which it deals with the nature of dreams - lucid, surreal, and simply hopeful - and the Gatsbian quality of the Big Apple to corrupt and confuse people. Hey, that latter one is a proven fact - just ask Donald Trump.
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