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I thought of this while reading A Fan's Notes, not just because the author is an unabashed, morbid alcoholic (although he is), but because he is so many other horrible things as well. In and out of insane asylums; watching soap-operas for days on end while lying on his mother's davenport, eating oreos and masturbating; tormenting his father-in-law; abandoning his wife--that this loser, this crawling degenerate, was able to put together this magnificent, hilarious, scathing piece of literature . . . well, it should give even the most unworthy of us hope that we might be able to do the same. No matter how drunk you got at the Christmas party, the host was always drunker. No matter how irrelevant you may think your life is, Mr. Exley's was way more so.
It is a fictionalized memoir, which means that basically he wrote about his life and gave himself the liberty to stretch things here and there. Don't look for a straight-forward, page-turning, sequenced plot here. It is the kind of a book where the author starts to talk about something, which reminds him of something else, which then requires him to go into a lengthy background explanation. He starts his story in the New Parrot Lounge in Watertown, New York, watching the New York Giants on TV. It isn't until page 365--twenty pages before the end of the book--that he finally gets back to this thread. But if you understand this to begin with--that you're not going into some pot-boiler--and allow yourself to be patient, you will be in for a thrilling, profound, and hugely entertaining read.
His tale begins with the story of his complex relationship with his father, a football star himself, whom young Exley adored. But his confusion and his his father's apparent dislke of him is never resolved, as his father dies at age 40. From there it's college, and drinking, and home, and drinking, and work, and drinking, and a couple of failed relationships, and drinking, the davenport, and then in and out of the insane asylum three times. His observations throughout all of this are sharp, intelligent, and often wildly funny. He drinks, he says, because he cannot tolerate the clarity of constant sobriety. He fails, he says, because he does not fit in contemporary America. He doesn't like or understand it. Indeed, he loathes it, and in truth, there is much to loathe. Films, television, omnipresent mendacity, pseudo-intellectuals; his observations are a scathing indictment of our often petty, trivial, close-minded society.
But "it," America, cannot abide him either, and when he tries to hide from it he is institutionalized. His accounts of this experience, and the electro-shock treatments and insulin therapy he is administered there, are as searing as anything I have ever read on the subject. We come to understand that these well-intentioned but ultimately sadistic treatments, rather than cure one, instead simply cow one into submission.
The central metaphor of this book is that his life, in a very odd way, is tied to the football New York Giants of the late fifties and early sixties, and especially to Frank Gifford, a Giant, and Exley's contemporary. While everything else in his life is going out of control, his handle on reality is this team, and their star flanker. Indeed, he attended USC when Gifford was there, and moved back to New York at the same time Gifford became a Giant. He admires them; their quality is the one thing he can understand with lucidity. And it is Gifford's season-ending injury, suffered at the hands of Chuck Bednarik in 1960 (an event which every person claiming to be a football fan ought to know about), which shocks him into an understanding of his own mortality. He finally realizes that there is only a finite amount of time to waste being a drunk.
As I mentioned, the book is often wildly humorous, but at the same time it can be very powerful. It is difficult to quote from because the style simply does not lend itself to one-liners or sound-bites, but I will give it a try. Bumpy, his brother-in-law, initially comes across as a clown, a drunk, and an obnoxious buffoon. We laugh and laugh at Exley's description of his barroom forays and his filthy apartment. And then: "Beneath his wooden jollity, Bumpy was consuming himself with hate; and for one so seemingly self-conscious, so oppressivley inward, so apparently aware of nothing outside his own filthy tongue, Bumpy had an acute, nearly pathological insight into the temperature of those about him." Pow! Our little Bumpy is quite a bit more complex than we imagined.
Exley is unsparingly honest, describing his often disgraceful behaviour in the most lurid terms, and between that which he does and that which is done to him this book--despite its glaring intelligence--could have easily sunk into wallowing self-pity. But it never does, and that, I think, is why it emerges triumphant. It is a book written with wry bemusement and self-deprecating humor, and by one who, despite everything, has made the astonishing discovery that he likes himself. This book is a real original. A superior achievement.