Wavid
New Member
Nicholson Baker is an author of small books about small subjects. What he applies to these books, though, is a huge imagination, and a vast talent for writing. For more about the man himself, the Guardian provide a very thorough profile here. It's where I first heard of him, and inpsired me to go out and buy his debut novel - Mezzanine - a tale of one man's (a thinly disguised Baker) lunchtime. It's less than 200 pages long and even then is padded out with footnotes - but still takes a good while to read. The reason for this, as well as my own difficulties with short books, is because Baker's prose is such a joy you find yourself rolling his sentences around your brain, trying to think of conversations where you can use one of his jokes or turns of phrase. I'd offer some examples, but as I'm writing this at work and haven't got the book with me, I can't. Sorry. The delight that Baker takes in the everyday is at once entertaining and endearing, and the frustrations that confront him (and us) on a regular basis open the reader's eyes to a world which is taken for granted, and never questioned. Why, he asks, does one shoelace always break before the other? Why did fast food restaurants switch from cardboard straws, which retain their place in a cup of fizzy drink, to plastic ones which float absurdly on the top of the liquid?
I haven't read any of his other novels, all of which sounded rather mucky (that's a bit of extra information rather than a reason, by the way) until my sister presented me with a copy of his latest, A Boxful of Matches. There's even less action in this that in Mezzanine. A man gets up early everyday, lights a fire, makes a cup of coffee and ruminates for a few pages. The next day, he does exactly the same. The reader is treated to 33 chapters of this, 33 mornings, over 176 pages of double line spaced text. He talks about the way that having holes in your socks only irritates when you wear them in bed; about Fidel, the long surviving last ant in his ant farm; about the trials and tribulations of raising a duck in freezing conditions; about the delight and despair he takes in his children growing up.
There is humour here, then, and there is dejection. But the constant is the quality of the writing, and the genuine thrill that Baker takes in the mundane. The former carries you through the book, mesmerised. It is best savoured, rather than read through quickly - each day/chapter is so short they can easily be read two or three times over. You are constantly reminded of brilliant passages, which you just have to flick back to and enjoy over and over again. As for the everyday pleasures of life, well, you can't help but be infected by Baker's worldview. I constantly irritate my girlfriend and her brother with the smug satisfaction I take from putting on my slippers after work, which are infinately comfier than my work shoes - the joy this act brings me is totally lost on these non-Bakerites.
There are two more reasons to love this book and its author: 1) the book itself is a joy to behold, perfectly proportioned and stunningly well bound and designed, with the box of matches theme beautifully realised; and 2) Stephen King hates Baker and his work, claiming it to be "fucking toenail clippings". What King doesn't realise is that whilst his work is reliant on tight plotting and character, good writing can stand on its own without any props at all.
I haven't read any of his other novels, all of which sounded rather mucky (that's a bit of extra information rather than a reason, by the way) until my sister presented me with a copy of his latest, A Boxful of Matches. There's even less action in this that in Mezzanine. A man gets up early everyday, lights a fire, makes a cup of coffee and ruminates for a few pages. The next day, he does exactly the same. The reader is treated to 33 chapters of this, 33 mornings, over 176 pages of double line spaced text. He talks about the way that having holes in your socks only irritates when you wear them in bed; about Fidel, the long surviving last ant in his ant farm; about the trials and tribulations of raising a duck in freezing conditions; about the delight and despair he takes in his children growing up.
There is humour here, then, and there is dejection. But the constant is the quality of the writing, and the genuine thrill that Baker takes in the mundane. The former carries you through the book, mesmerised. It is best savoured, rather than read through quickly - each day/chapter is so short they can easily be read two or three times over. You are constantly reminded of brilliant passages, which you just have to flick back to and enjoy over and over again. As for the everyday pleasures of life, well, you can't help but be infected by Baker's worldview. I constantly irritate my girlfriend and her brother with the smug satisfaction I take from putting on my slippers after work, which are infinately comfier than my work shoes - the joy this act brings me is totally lost on these non-Bakerites.
There are two more reasons to love this book and its author: 1) the book itself is a joy to behold, perfectly proportioned and stunningly well bound and designed, with the box of matches theme beautifully realised; and 2) Stephen King hates Baker and his work, claiming it to be "fucking toenail clippings". What King doesn't realise is that whilst his work is reliant on tight plotting and character, good writing can stand on its own without any props at all.