Only The Dead Know Brooklyn

                                                                                

I'm not one for book clubs or book reviews, but I'll make an exception. Having spent the time necessary to read a novel of over 7oo pages,ⁱ it seems to be a waste not to find an additional use of that time.ⁱⁱ And, since I'm an extraordinarily slow reader with a short attention span, this was no minor accomplishment. But I read relatively quickly – for me – and only had to renew the book once, though I finished it just soon enough to be able to return it to the library without paying in coin what I had lost in the shortening of my life.

First of all, let me admit that apart from the author, the title has nothing to do with the subject matter of this essay. But it's a catchier title than anything more directly involved with the bookⁱⁱⁱ I'll be discussing – or anything else I could imagine – and more likely to attract the attention of the reader.^iv The short story, “Only the Dead Know Brooklyn,”^v was published by Thomas Wolfe in 1935, three years before his death from tuberculosis, and five years prior to the publication of “You Can't Go Home Again,” the novel about which I'm writing.

I won't bore you with the plot line of this autobiographical work. Rather I'll give some of the impressions I had while reading it. They're hardly comprehensive, and simply reflect a few of the ideas that crossed my mind while reading it. The story can be found on line, and even if you can't find a plot summary, just read any entry which tells the story of Wolfe's life. You'll find the biography to be the pretty much the same as the story in the novel.

If you look hard enough on line you'll also find many reviews of what was called by most critics a literary masterpiece. Some “ordinary” readers agree with that assessment, however others are more reserved in their praise. Many, in fact, see more faults than strengths, although there is virtually universal acknowledgment of the poetry and the beauty of the language used.

I'm among those inclined to take issue with what I read. The novel, for me, is a conglomerate rather than a unified work. Besides the story itself, a large portion of the novel^vi consists of what seems to me to be self-conscious and “artsy” writing,^vii very different from other parts of the work. Some critics have noted and praised his “stream-of-consciousness” style, which I find to distract from the story-telling aspect of the work. The writing seems to change styles from time to time, which is something I find disconcerting. In addition, large sections of the book, and numerous characters, seem to have been inserted only in order to allow the author to have a platform for his philosophical expositions.

Another problem that I had was that in one section of the book Wolfe told about a period in which Hitler and his supporters reigned in Germany – a country of which he seemed quite fond – and though it was clear that many of his characters were troubled by what was happening, they viewed it as for the best for Germany in the long run. There was, for example, a little^viii about the fate of the Jews, but the view was expressed by several of the characters – both party members and “average” citizens – that the Jews had it coming to them.^ix Earlier in the book Wolfe spent a good deal of time describing his relationship with his Jewish mistress – whose husband seemed either dumb and ignorant, or unconcerned about the affair. The husband, like all Jews (and almost all the city characters in this portion of the story were Jewish) was more interested in making money than in any other aspect of his life. There is also much deprecating talk of “Jewesses,” whom the author doesn't seem to admire especially.

Perhaps his views can be regarded as reflecting the spirit of the times. It was a period in which many of our people were more interested in problems at home than in those of people far away. And, in any event, there was little sympathy for Jews at the time. If that was the case, though, it is a sad indication that the author was simply willing to go along with the crowd. One of his earlier books, “Look Homeward Angel,” although well regarded, has been criticized for the racism of its author. There too, however, Wolfe was excused because he was a southerner, and his position simply reflected the feelings of the time and place. Even so, it is telling that the artist followed the views of the time rather than exposing their errors. Perhaps he agreed with those views.

A final criticism may seem carping, but in a way it describes something which may, to a degree, undermine the entire work. Near the end, the main character, an author, speaks lovingly of his friend and editor, and describes him as “Ecclesiasticus.”^x Since that title is used more than once it is hard to pass it off as a typographical error. He then refers to the man as the “Preacher of Ecclesiastes” – like whom he had wonderful insight. Wolfe's confusion and conflation of the biblical “Ecclesiastes” with the apocryphal “Ecclesiasticus”^xi suggests that some of his own insights^xii may not have been based on personal knowledge. Whatever the reason, however, it is hard not to wonder about the accuracy of other “facts” in the book.

Oh well. It's hard to be “wordy”^xiii and still be accurate in a book this long.

i      I rarely read fiction, and even more rarely anything – fact or fiction – of this length.

ii     One more entertaining for me than the book was.

iii    Actually the author – or maybe it's his editor – specifies that the volume comprises seven “books.” The style changes that mark some of the books, and the fact that the novel was published two years after the author's death, and following the assembling of his notes by editor Edward Aswell, certainly raise the question of whether this conceit was Aswell's.

iv    Note that I put that in the singular, not as a matter of style but because it's unlikely that there is more than one reader – if there is any at all.

v      Anything with “Brooklyn” in its title is likely to be noticed.

vi     See, especially, “Book” 4.

vii    Philistine that I am, I found the writing pretentious. Some of it was moving, but much seemed overwritten and with a view of how it would impress the critics who read it.

viii   Very little. Perhaps this was because little was known about what was happening, although Wolfe was living in Germany through much of it. As a writer, and observer of the conditions around him, it's hard to give him a pass on the issue.

ix     Wolfe seemed preoccupied with giving his Jewish characters large noses and talking of “chews” – as one of his German friends termed them – as more interested in money than anything else.

x      At least that's what it says in the edition of the book that I read: Perennial Classics – a Division of Harper Collins, 1998. If that's not the case in the original, perhaps my criticism is of those who put out this edition and not of Mr. Wolfe.

xi     Also known as “The Wisdom of ben Sirah,” “The Wisdom of Jesus ben Sirah,” and “Sirach.”

xii    And those of critics who did not remark on this error.

xiii   A frequent description in reviews by professional critics and “average” readers, though often combined with such complimentary words as “poetic,” “brilliant,” and the like. It's interesting that critics, who were referred to as Communists and “aesthetes” by one of the characters in the book, spoke so highly of it. Did each assume that the deprecating remarks referred to the others and not to himself? Were they simply beating their breasts in admission of the failings of their profession? Were they as caught up in the prejudices of the times as Wolfe was? In the reviews I read I saw no notice of those biases.