Customer Reviews

Annotations (New Directions Paperbook)

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Have you ever been reading a book and wanted to know what was going on somewhere else in the story? Or earlier? Or later? Or in the author's head? *Annotations* gives you the sense that you are looking out over the story and deep within the characters at the same time. Such a patient, delicate, tight weave. Tight, so there's a firmness to this writing, too. On the one hand, we get to see what's going on inside as we see the surfaces of things. The narrative is not left vulnerable to readers' whims, though. The constantly shifting perspectives teach us not just how to get through the book, but also what to make of it.

Have you ever been reading a book and wanted to know what was going on somewhere else in the story? Or earlier? Or later? Or in the author's head? *Annotations* gives you the sense that you are looking out over the story and deep within the characters at the same time. Such a patient, delicate, tight weave. Tight, so there's a firmness to this writing, too. On the one hand, we get to see what's going on inside as we see the surfaces of things. The narrative is not left vulnerable to readers' whims, though. The constantly shifting perspectives teach us not just how to get through the book, but also what to make of it.

How does one write a generic autobiography? Keene has given us an example. In telling of his upbringing in St. Louis, we learn of the flight of whites from the suburbs into which Afro-Americans had moved, we learn of the heritage of the city as multi-cultural, of growing up with an alcoholic parent, of growing up gay etc. Only occasionally is the narrative "personal" in the sense of revealing something about the narrator which we could not know without the self-revelation of the narrative. The result is wonderful prose, interesting structure, and literature that exists only for itself - never revealing something new, specific about the human condition.

This anorexic novel (I tried stuffing mashed plantains in between the pages) is a minor masterpiece. It's small, and you can use it to slide it into the jamb of your door in case you get locked out. Another good use: you can slice someone's head off with it. There's a lot of big words here, words that were like elephants being stuffed into a sandwich bag. You can hear the words grunting in agony as you read the book. It's divided into several chapters with long paragraphs without any speed bumps in them. Whenever there's a red light Keene doesn't let up, he goes right through and ignores the ominous white policeman on the scooter trying to hail him down. I think John Keene is a tiny genius. He can live in a mousehole with a Mrs. Mouse. But he needs to write a bigger book, something that matches the density of a phone directory, something a midget can sit on if the table is too high. Only then will the flora and fauna of his verbal fireworks (illegal in most tropical enclaves) will truly have a chance for a decent stretch exercise.