I’m reading three books at once at the moment. I have a big reading list for sabbatical, so most of them are on that list.
Right now, I’m reading I Write What I Like, by Steve Biko, Country of My Skull, by Antjie Krog (two South African books on my sabbatical list), and Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving on CD in the car.
I have much to say about the two South African books, but I’ll save that for later. I want to talk about the Irving novel right now.
I’ve read quite a few books by John Irving. Terry Davis knows him–knew him at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop, so I’ve always felt as if I had only one degree of separation from him, even though I’ve never met him. A Blizzard prevented a visit the one time Terry and I were going to go see Irving in Minneapolis. Anyway, I try to read him frequently.
Here’s the deal: Irving is a fascinating writer, and Cider House Rules and The World According to Garp, and A Prayer for Owen Meany are probably his most acclaimed stories, as far as I know. Amazing stories.
A Son of the Circus, Until I Find You, A Widow for One Year, and now, Last Night in Twisted River, are all also amazing stories, full of complicated, complex characters in complicated, complex plots. But somehow, I get tired of paying attention. There are layers of stories in each of these last four novels I mentioned. I feel as if each of these books should have been maybe two or three books.
Last Night in Twisted River feels as if it takes pieces of Irving’s life and winds them with the massive “What if’s” of a fiction writer, and packs it all together. It started out about a New Hampshire logging village, and I was sucked right in. But then it moves on to another life in the character’s life and another and another. It also jumps back and forth chronologically so that I find myself feeling as if Irving thought of something else to add to one period of the characters’ lives and instead of re-writing, just added a new section. For instance, we hear about the life of the writer and the writer’s father (in the novel, not Irving’s) in Iowa City, and then life moves on…but then we go back and layer in a lover in Iowa City that we didn’t know about while we “were there.” It seems as if Irving made decisions about the story and kept adding them instead of rewriting. Maybe, maybe because I’m rewriting so massively right now, I am too much aware of this and too critical. But still, I find it frustrating. I might not read Irving for awhile. Sorry, John. I’m sure I’ll come back to you like to an old friend.
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