|
|
17 of 18 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Powers is our Mann., May 10, 2001
Richard Powers' books fly in the face of what I've always thought literature should be. His prose lopes along with the ungainliness of a Zimbabwean basketball giant off the court, he almost never finds le mot juste, no matter how long his books are, and his characters communicate with metaphors drawn from the deep-end of numbers theory and astrophysics, including the children, giving the impression that this man is critically cloistered. Sometimes, Powers doesn't even seem like an artist at all -- his books are almost completely void of sensual appeal, poetic imagery, and charm. Whenever a character in Gold Bug tells a joke, it's invariably so awful that Powers has to explain afterwards how everyone couldn't keep from laughing, proving he's as detached from the human animal's need for humor as he is from the various processes of cell division -- he understands how other authors use it to lighten the load of their material, and tries to do the same, yet invariably comes off like an anthropomorphic robot in a feel-good Hollywood film who, when asked to define love, spits out, "The rush of hormones resulting from the biological imperative to reproduce." Still, for better or worse, any serious reader has to admit that Powers also has the monopoly on American fiction, turning out three books in the last decade -- Gain, Galatea 2.2, and this one -- that tower over the unfocused page-piles of his fellow academics. In other words, one must learn to love Powers despite himself. Almost everyone I recommend his books to gives up after half a day of reading, unwilling to sift through the traffic-jammed prose -- "Snow obliterated paths, spun power lines into flax, confected hedgerows, dressed our cabin in buttressed gothics and finials," is a typical try-too-hard example, proving that Powers, like Shakespeare, never blots a line. But his klutziness, somehow, is a proof of his sincerity, and so is his heroic effort not to allow unlimited knowledge to make him bitter. He trots out a quote at the end of the novel, the source unknown to me, that sums up his ethos perfectly: "For who would lose / Though full of pain / This intellectual being." Even before reading that quote, Powers had forced me ask myself repeatedly whether understanding was a curse, and if it might not be better to stop writing once and for all and go work in a pizza parlor. But thankfully, Powers is as insightful about the prospect of hope as he is about the moments of despair. This is a man who can squash you with an all-too-convincing treatise on how there is no evolution, only random "quick fixes" of mishandled genetic material, then restore your faith in mankind with a mini-essay on Bach that proves beyond a shadow a doubt that he was the agent of some kind of divine power. The very ORDER of Powers' books, the mindboggling synthesis of disparate concepts, is an almost religious attempt to prove the universe operates according to consistent, logical, invisible laws. Gold Bug dotes on Bach, but Powers is more of a Bruckner, a fabricator of gawky but heaven-scraping, exhausting but cathartic symphonies. For the novice: Start with Galatea 2.2, then move on to Gain, and finally Gold Bug. Those two later books are much more controlled, less digressive, flaunting a vast improvement in technique -- but Gold Bug is at the heart of his output. It's almost like the world's most brilliant diary, in a way.
|