Book Review: Anne Tyler

You have to wonder what goes through the mind of a man like Micah Mortimer. He lives alone; he keeps to himself; his routine is etched in stone. At seven fifteen every morning you see him set out on his run. Along about ten or ten thirty he slaps the magnetic TECH HERMIT sign onto the roof of his Kia. The times he leaves on his calls will vary, but not a day seems to go by without several clients requiring his services. Afternoons he can be spotted working around the apartment building; he moonlights as the super. He’ll be sweeping the walk or shaking out the mat or conferring with a plumber. Monday nights, before trash day, he hauls the garbage bins to the alley; Wednesday nights, the recycling bins. At ten p.m. or so the three squinty windows behind the foundation plantings go dark. (His apartment is in the basement. It is probably not very cheery.)

This is the start of Anne Tyler's new novel, "Redhead by the Side of the Road." Micah Mortimer is wedded to routines; he does not think deeply about the people in his life, or about why he is here on the planet.

He has a girlfriend, Cass, who would like to move things along and discuss cohabitation. When Cass indirectly suggests this, Micah misses the clue, and a break-up ensues. At the same time, something apparently unrelated pops up. A lost young man visits Micah; he is the son of Micah's ex-girlfriend, and he wonders who his father might be. Though it's clearly not Micah....a strange pseudo-parent-child thing begins, and surprises ensue.

Anne Tyler has a particular trick I love: It's when the protagonist has a certain memory of formative events, and a voice from the past speaks up and challenges that memory. The false memory--more or less responsible for how the protagonist has lived his problematic life--now disappears. Having edited his own understanding of the world, the protagonist is able to do new things; his world expands, even if just by a little bit. Because Tyler is so perceptive and subtle, this magic trick is always moving. Literally always. I was even moved in "Noah's Compass," and that one isn't regarded as Tyler's strongest work.

A great gift of any hour you spend with Tyler is the details: Micah, a limited man, is enraged when his tenants fail to break down their boxes for recycling, and he vents his aggression by stomping on the boxes, and not carefully slitting through the corners first. (This is Micah's act of rebellion.) An obsessively attentive driver, Micah imagines there is a Traffic God, a benign spirit up above, and this spirit watches Micah's cautious traffic choices and voices his hushed approval. Also, Tyler enjoys cataloguing the contents of a messy kitchen: Jell-O packets next to popsicle sticks next to school projects next to one plastic earring, missing its partner.

A good writer--at least a good realist writer--should find wonder and beauty in quotidian life, and Ms. Tyler can still do this, after so many, many years.

I loved this book. I'm not sure there are many better ways to spend two or three hours right now, in this odd climate. I'm still thinking about Micah days after having put his story aside.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog