Eggers is the New Miller

“He could not pay her tuition because he had made a series of foolish decisions in his life. He had not planned well. He had not had courage when he needed it.”

So here it goes, The Vandenburg Rewrite’s second post of our Dave Eggers Week (by week I mean about 8-9 days). If I were more intelligent, I would have insisted that I post first because I’ve been experiencing a bit of a block all week figuring out how I was going to follow Lemon’s last post. I’m definitely not going to try to live up to Lemon’s subject matter, and though I love the book I’m going to be writing about, this book for me was not life-altering, it’s not my favorite book in the world, but it’s great literature that I believe is important.

In his latest novel, A Hologram for the King, Dave Eggers presents what I have interpreted as a modern day Death of a Salesman. The protagonist, Alan Clay, is a struggling divorcee trying to maintain a veneer of success, keep his house, and pay for his child’s education amidst the economic crisis. Similar to Arthur Miller’s work, Eggers strikes a chord with far too many Americans at the time of the novel’s release last summer. The novel does well to point out the complicated struggles of many Americans during this time in our history, but the motivations of Clay and his reflections on how he got to this point reveal issues within the American concept of success. It is, by and large, a criticism of the American dream.

Clay is introduced as a distraught character for numerous obvious reasons. He can’t pay his bills, he can’t catch a break, and he can’t give his daughter what she needs. Ultimately, Clay is a character who sees himself as a failure, and he has one chance to redeem himself. He must put on an impressive hologram presentation for King Abdullah, of Saudi Arabia, that will persuade the King to hire his firm to equip the country’s latest up-and-coming urban development, KAEC, with the necessary technology. Hence, the book title.

Again, it would be easy to explain Clay’s feelings of failure by crediting to his lack of professional and financial success, but, again, just like Willy Loman, (I can’t stop seeing comparisons you guys) his feelings of inadequacy are deeper, a more complex issue within the fabric of our American culture.

Eggers is bringing attention to the same old America that authors were talking about 60 years ago. We’re still obsessed with living up to one generalized definition of success. To be a man, for an American, means to be depended on, to feel needed, to be the foundation of a household, the provider, the backbone. To be a man means to be successful in every aspect of the word. Most importantly, to be a man means to be strong, to never be weak, and to never admit your own failure. That’s Alan Clay’s greatest sorrow; he can no longer ignore his weakness, his failures, or his inadequacy according to his culture.  It’s this definition of success that leads to his feelings of worthlessness rather than his actual mistakes. Though we all make mistakes, it’s our perspectives that influence how we weigh those mistakes and the significance we place on them.  

At different points throughout the novel, Clay recognizes the problematic thinking ingrained in him by his culture. He places the goals society has deemed acceptable as his ultimate priority which essentially dooms him from the start. Despite this reflection, he is never able to break free from those expectations. It’s the great lie of the American Dream, displayed for the reader in a modern yet familiar setting. To expect that the possession of a family, a home, and a socially acceptable profession will bring you happiness will only render disappointment sooner or later.

The shame of Clay’s failure drives him, quite literally, to the other side of the world, and his continued failure causes him to never want to face the picture of success he failed to live up to. At the end of the novel, despite Clay’s momentary reflections, we see that obtaining success is more important than the non-material life he has created, mainly his relationship with those in his life he is close to. He opts to stay in Saudi Arabia, despite further rejection, rather than returning home to his family empty-handed.

Sure, he doesn’t literally take his own life to provide for his family, Willy Loman style, but he does so in a sense. He cuts himself off from his former life to exercise every attempt to put his daughter through college and maintain the same comfortable home she has grown up in. In both works, you see the motivations of these men not being out of love for their families (though I don’t doubt they have love for their families). Rather, their greatest motivation is the American definition of what it means to be a man, their sense of duty. Eggers is pointing out that we really haven’t come so far in the past 60 years. We maintain the same damaging standards in our culture, and it’s not doing anyone any good.

Put Eggers on your shelf next to Fitzgerald, Miller, and O’Neil. He is, for me, a constant reminder that modern literature is in no way inferior to our classics and our literary cannon. Though he is by no means the only important voice among contemporary writers, he is a great one.

-Kansas

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius

Timing is a bitch.

Kansas and I talked about doing a Dave Eggers theme this week, which I’m only too happy to do, since he is one of my favorite living human beings. The plan is for her to write about Hologram for the King, his latest book, for me to write about A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, his first book, and for us to film a video about our experience meeting him this spring. So. Here goes.

I first read Mr. Eggers’ semi-maybe-fictionalized memoir when I was seventeen. My mother had just died, and two days later, the book appeared on my chair at church, given to me by the sister of one of my friends. I hadn’t known my mother was going to die, because no one did, because she wasn’t. Until she was dead.

So I read the book, because I was happy to take any help I could get, as long as I didn’t have to ask for it. And our pal Dave happened to be exactly what I needed.

The book is a chronicle of the years following his parents’ deaths. Both died in the span of a month, leaving 21-year-old Dave as the primary caretaker for his 7-year-old brother Toph. It’s self-aware, ridiculous, honest,  and absolutely lives up to its title.

Young Dave, raising his little brother in the late 1990s, thought a lot about how other people thought of him and his grief. He viewed himself as a tragic hero, struck by fate and watched by all. Which made sense to me. It felt like the world was watching me. I think Dave did a better job managing his image than I did, though, because mostly what I did was nothing. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry, so no one did. I didn’t talk to anyone about how I felt. People assuming I would be sad or upset felt like an insult to me, so I decided to show those people they were wrong.

But weird shit happens when someone close to you dies. Normal things, too, like people bringing you meals and sending cards, but also definitely weird things, like giving you money and telling you they know what message your lost loved one is trying to send to you. People don’t know how to handle the situation, or you, so even if they mean well, it doesn’t always come across that way. And you have so very little control over yourself in those moments that containing the anger and sadness and lostness inside you seems a worthy goal, and if the people around you can’t even handle not screwing up a condolence card, how can you expect them to handle what you feel right now? Especially when you can’t handle it yourself, because no one told you it would be this way. No one told you that even in the middle of all that loss, all those parts of you that are gone or buried or numb, part of you feels good. Part of you knows you were born to play this role, the tragic hero, the chosen one, the one who was assigned this lot in life because you are special. No one told you how good it feels to be watched, to be scrutinized for any signs of falling apart or looking for relief in the wrong places or anything that could be pitied, and give the watchers nothing. No one told you that. Except Dave Eggers.

And here I am now. That Friday was five years ago this week. This Friday I got the news that my dad has cancer. That Sunday, this book came to me, and today, this Sunday, I’m thinking about all the ways it’s changed me since then.

I’ll be honest: I’m sure there are betters paths through the journey of loss than the one in this book. Repression and manipulation are very real dangers, ones that my poor little Anglo-Saxon heart couldn’t always defend against, and ones that this story sort of glamorizes.

Regardless, I will never stop recommending this book. “We read to know we are not alone,” and no book has ever made me feel less alone than this one. I think that’s why I write about books, too. Whatever I’m facing, whatever you’re facing, there is nothing new under the sun. Someone else has faced it and they’ve probably put it into a book.

“I can tell you more. I have so many stories... I can do it any way you want, too-- I can do it funny, or maudlin, or just straight, uninflected-- anything. You tell me. It’s all there, all these things at once, so it’s up to you-- you choose, you pick... I was born of both stability and chaos. I have seen nothing and everything. I am twenty-four but feel ten thousand years old. I am emboldened by youth, unfettered and hopeful, though inextricably tied to the past and future by my beautiful brother, who is part of both. Can you not see that we’re extraordinary? That we were meant for something else, something more? All this did not happen to us for naught, I can assure you-- there is no logic to that, there is logic only in assuming that we suffered for a reason. Just give us our due. I am bursting with the hopes of a generation, their hopes surge through me, threaten to burst my hardened heart! Can you not see this? I am at once pitiful and monstrous, I know, and this is all my own making, I know-- not the fault of my parents but all my own creation, yes, but I am the product of my environment, and thus representative, must be exhibited, as inspiration and cautionary tale. Can you not see what I represent? I am both a) martyred moralizer and b) amoral omnivore born of the suburban vacuum + idleness + television + Catholicism + alcoholism + violence; I am a freak in secondhand velour, a leper who uses L’Oreal Anti-Sticky Mega Gel. I am rootless, ripped from all foundations, an orphan raising an orphan and wanting to take away everything there is and replace it with stuff I’ve made. I have nothing but my friends and what’s left of my little family. I need community, I need feedback, I need love, connection, give-and-take-- I will bleed if they will love. Let me try. Let me prove... I could die soon. I probably already have AIDS. Or cancer. Something bad will happen to me, I know, I know this because I have seen it so many times. I will be shot in an elevator, I will be swallowed in a sinkhole, will drown, so I need to bring this message now; I only have so much time, I know that sounds ridiculous, I seem young, healthy, strong, but things happen, I know you may not think so, but things happen to me, to those around me, they truly do, you’ll see, so I need to grab this while I can, because I could go at any minute-- Oh please let me show this to millions...

And that will heal you?

Yes!"

-Lemon

Because You Don't Always Have to Read Novels

I love novels for a lot of reasons. I love the sense of accomplishment you gain from finishing a lengthy and dense book; I love how attached you grow to the characters you’ve spent days on end with; I love the way storylines can become disjointed and chaotic only to come around in the end after dozens of suspenseful chapters. Reading a novel is a unique experience, but as much as I love them, some of the most memorable and impactful stories I’ve read haven’t been novels. I love short stories. I love the way that in order to create a good short story, every sentence is crucial; a writer has to be precise. I love that because there aren’t hundreds of pages to communicate what you want to say as an author, short stories usually deliver a singular, complex, and often convicting message. I love that so many things remain unanswered in a short story. It’s frustrating at times, but that’s one reason why I find them so haunting, and in turn, life-altering.

I took a short stories class two years ago where we studied short story writers and their form. It brought me a new appreciation for the genre, and one of the stories I read in that class I’ve never been able to get out of my head. Ursula LeGuin’s story, “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas,” is my favorite. The narrator speaks candidly with the reader throughout the brief, four page story, forcing the reader to examine their own behaviors and the value they place on human life. LeGuin paints the picture of a town that knows no suffering, no pain, no law (because it would be unnecessary) and a life that meets the conditions of happiness for every individual living there. When the narrator has adequately described Omelas as the most perfect place on earth, they reveal the qualifying factor. In the middle of town, in an unspecified location, below the street level, there exists a suffering, ambiguously gendered and aged child. As long as the child continues to suffer, continues to fester in its own filth, and continues to deteriorate from malnutrition, those in Omelas can continue life as they have always known it.

Perhaps the most interesting detail of the story is the fact that all of the citizens of Omelas know this child exists. In fact, most of them, at least those old enough to go, have seen this child. The narrator then begins to divulge the convicting layers of justification that the citizens engage in daily, bearing an eerie resemblance to the type of arguments Americans assign to an array of topics all the time. LeGuin brilliantly leaves the details of the child’s identity and location vague, forcing the reader to determine the scapegoat in their culture or situation. The reader must assign this child’s identity, and the reader must decide if they will continue on, enjoying the life they’ve been enjoying as a result of the suffering of another, or choose to live differently altering every aspect of the life they’ve known.

Everytime I read this story I am astounded by how much so few pages affects me; I am taken aback with completely new conclusions and convictions; I am amazed by LeGuin’s thoughtful and precise writing, and I am reminded how important it is for us to engage all areas of literature, how reading short stories is not lazy or only for those who “don’t do” novels. I am humbled by a writer and a story that can do so much with so little.

Kansas