Customer Reviews

30

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I want to defend this novel from its detractors, particularly the New York Times Book Review, which showed shocking disrespect for the author and ignored the book's considerable technical and emotional feats. "30" is not a dreary list of prosaic domestic facts, nor is it a failed modernist experiment tied together with a lot of sex. It is a careful, moving study of the contrast between family and ego, and of the workings of the imagination. The narrative breadth of the book is amazing; Gould Bookbinder, its protagonist, sees his mother to her death; powerfully invents an entire life for his brother, who died in childhood; revises his memories as he recalls them and interprets his story as it unfolds. The result is not in the least bit dull or confusing, only demanding to the reader, as a book must occasionally be. If you like Dixon, read it immediately; if you don't know his work well start with the criminally out-of-print "Stories of Stephen Dixon." And ignore all book reviews, except of course this one.

An impressive and outstanding novel. Dixon is the direct descendant of Joyce and Faulkner tinged with his own modern day 'end of cycle' vision of the middle aged man in the West. Thorough craftsmanship, tremendous empathy with human follies and strengths and great humour. And a damn sight easier reading than Gaddis (who is still greater I think). For those who take pot shots at Dixon, they should remember that they are only displaying their ignorance and inability to understand true fiction. For what is fiction and the art of story telling is what Dixon is all about.

Having just read (NYTIMES) Vincent Passaro's two-for-one book reviews of Stephen Dixon's latest short story collection (Sleep) and novel (30), I must express immense disappointment in the reviewer's assumed capabilities to take on the task of reviewing a writer's work as challenging as Dixon's.

From the start Passaro comes across as nothing more but a cranky literary magazine editor who is finally embracing the occasion of being able to slam Dixon in a national publication. There are probably lots of obscure lit.magazine editors/readers like this, but none are as lucky as Passaro who gets to devote considerable space to critiquing Dixon's scattered and maybe slipshod method of sending stories to magazines. What this has to do with approximately 955 pages (combined) of writing is beyond me. This would be akin to a frustrated actor remembering the time he was eating in a restaurant and happened to spy Woody Allen shoveling spaghetti into his face with the zeal of a 5-year old.

The reviewer also breaks no new ground in criticizing Dixon's style - the paragraphs that meander for pages; the patterns of speech that he employs. One wonders how much of Dixon's work he has read; would one call it a valid criticism of Picasso's work that it's too abstract - or better still, would one call it a fresh criticism?

Passaro wraps up his scattershot review by concluding that Dixon "is a second-tier member of what one might call the Horny Old Men School of American literature" who doesn't allow the reader to "enjoy the ride". In other words, it's just not sexy enough for Passaro. Well, sometimes life is like that. There's plenty of erotic literature on the shelves already; maybe that's what Passaro was looking for in the first place.

I found this book to be a trial to read and not worth the effort. I read the first 550 pages or so, hoping for some point to the book, but could not bring myself to finish it. The chapter-long paragraphs are exhausting and tedious. For example, one chapter describes how the main character, Gould Bookbinder, loses all the items he usually keeps in his pockets. First, he searches for his keys and we hear in detail about every place that he searches for them and why he searches there. Then, he realizes he has lost his pen, and we go through the whole process over again. Then he's lost his glasses and we search yet again. Then again for his memo book. And then for the checkbook, and on and on. Some may find this attention to detail interesting. Spare me. I realize that literary critics and book reviewers have described this book in glowing terms, but I have to disagree. I am an intelligent person and I love to read, but I feel that this was a waste of my time. If you must, read the first few chapters, but don't expect it to get any better from there.

For 24 years now, we have loved and published many of Steve Dixon's stories. Thirteen, to be exact. And in our upcoming SQ Issue,#35, we're doing it again. Celebrate with us. Anne Brashler and Marie Hayes, co-editors of StoryQuarterly.