Dana Spiotta

This National Book Award finalist from 2006 largely lives up to its praise. Every paragraph is a small wonder of astute observation expressed in seemingly effortless perfect prose, and the characters are fascinating and well drawn. Much of it is set in Seattle in the late 1990s, and as a resident of Seattle at that time, I can attest that it’s spot on, and it wasn’t hard to identify the named and unnamed Capital Hill landmarks, some of whose names were changed in amusing ways. (The show more book’s “Shrink Wrap” music store is obviously Cellophane Square, while the 15th Avenue Mall’s Urban Outfitters store becomes “Suburban Guerilla.”) As I read on, though, the book’s underlying tone of sadness became stronger and stronger, and I’m sorry to say it never abated. If you’re made of strong stuff, this uncompromising quality may strike you as the only honest way of developing the book’s plot and themes, and I’ll admit that my wish for a happier resolution is decidedly naïve and uncool. Still, I can’t help feeling that at the end, the book’s incredible character-building--the quality that was its greatest strength in the early chapters--took a back seat to its message about what’s happened to society in general. And at this point, in 2022, I think we’ve all seen enough to have absorbed that message.

Speaking of the SF writer Robert Heinlein’s penchant for upfront preachiness in his later works, Heinlein’s contemporary Theodore Sturgeon accused him of having “sold his birthright for a pot of message.” (See note.) Maybe it’s never a good thing when a book shunts its characters aside to make a Statement. And while here it’s done both subtilely and, I think, accurately, I was left with the feeling that I had been duped into thinking that the book was going to be about what happened to the sad, damaged characters I had grown to care about so much. Instead, their story fizzled, and the book ends not with a bang, but with a whimper, taking the same path, as the writer may be trying to say, as did the promise of the idealistic 1960s.

(Note) The wordplay is on the story of Jacob and Esau in the King James Bible; it’s a long story, but the KJB tells us that Esau “sold his birthright for a mess of pottage.” show less

This is a curious little novel seemingly focused on the oddly curated life of a small-time rock star—in actuality, it aspires to examine postmodern culture’s impact on our ability to connect with each other in emotionally meaningful ways.

The majority of the story is narrated by Denise, the younger sister of Nik Worth, an inscrutable musician who seems to prefer living in a fictional world that he curates through self-produced music, ghost-written reviews of said music, obituaries, and show more “chronicles” that he produces, documenting his not-quite-authentic life. Denise, single, in her 40s, with an adult daughter whose documentary film about her uncle rests yet another layer upon his palimpsest of a life, struggles with her memory—she has trouble recalling names, dates, events—and news stories about tragedies (missing children, terrorism, torture, mass murder) seem to affect her more powerfully than events in her own life or in the lives of her family members.

An omniscient narrator takes over briefly— and rather abruptly—when Denise seems to struggle the most and then relinquishes the narration back to Denise; in addition, the novel’s structure mirrors the circuitous path of Denise’s free-associative mind (her narration is often sidetracked by digressions). It’s never quite clear whether Denise is a reliable narrator, since the story itself frankly questions the nature of memory, truth, and reality. It’s a curious and compelling read that wraps up with an inconclusive mystery, much as it began. show less

Denise and Nik are brother and sister, orbiting one another. Nik is a musician who creates his own world. His music is self-published and distributed to only a few people. His sister may be his complete audience. Nik creates complex record albums, imaginary fans and writes his own reviews. He keeps detailed journals, Chronicles, that blur reality and his fantasy life. While he creates himself, Denise barely seems to exist, except in response to others -- Nik, her daughter, her mother and the show more people she sees on the news. She seems to have no barrier between herself and the world she sees. And yet her observations of the world ring so true. The book puts all purpose in life, in reality, to question. show less

Eat the Document would have had me sold just on the basis of Mary's teenage son's awe-struck descriptions of the Beach Boys' music. Luckily that's paired with some of the most knowing commentary on the end of a generation I've yet read, and some of the more believable characters in modern fiction.