The Art of Fielding/Chad Harbach: Reflections

It took me many months to read The Art of Fielding, Chad Harbach's much-discussed debut novel. It has moved from my bag to the floor to the couch to a shelf back onto the floor—but never into the pile of books I finally give up on.  It wasn't the quality of the book that kept me from the story; it was time.  I could never find enough of it to read all 512 pages.

This weekend, I did—walked away from my own work, sat down as snow showers were followed by rain then sun, and read.  I liked this story, liked the way that it was told.  I liked the actual paper the book was printed on—smooth paper for a smooth story.  True, this story about a college shortstop, a college president, a college catcher, a girl who arrives late to college, and a college star (you get the point) could be preposterous at turns, but it never lost its seamless sound.  That's because Chad Harbach writes careful and yet still light-filled sentences that honor not just story, but idea.

I dog-earred many pages.  I'm going to quote, below, from the paragraph that most moved me, that captured the mood of my present days, my internal monologue.  The passage comes late in the book, but I don't think it's a spoiler.  It is, instead, an elegant representation of how a talented novelist can be writing a story, complete unto itself, and at the same time be talking directly to the reader who holds the book in her hand.  Harbach in this passage is writing about a kid named Schwartz.  But he's doing more than that.  He's reaching farther.

A final word:  I went onto Amazon to see what other readers had thought after reading Fielding.  I should not have done that.  The unkind comments claiming this book to be pedestrian, for example, or cardboard, or cliche, left me shuddering and steeped inside this question:  How is ridicule acceptable, when healthy criticism will do?

A passage that moved me, from The Art of Fielding:

He hadn't pushed through that one last barrier, his fear of succeeding, beyond which the world lay totally open to him.  Schwartz would never live in a world so open.  His would always be occluded by the fact that his understanding and ambition outstripped his talent.  He'd never be as good as he wanted to be, not at baseball, not at football, not at reading Greek or taking the LSAT. And beyond all that he'd never be as good as he wanted to be.  He'd never found anything inside himself that was really good and pure, that wasn't double-edged, that couldn't just as easily become its opposite.

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I Want

I have about a half hour of typing in me each day before the arm goes numb (except for the last finger, which simply hurts like heck).  But I have ten daily hours, at least, of corporate work (yesterday was 14) and sometimes I write blog posts, and sometimes (though less so these days) emails, and every now and then I write a sentence or two of a novel.  I go around saying ouch ouch ouch ouch.  I'm just an old creak.  That's what I am.

What I would really like to do is sit back and read the work of others.  Just, like, sit here and read.  Monday evening, ahead of an event downtown, I slipped inside the cozy sleeve of a bookstore and swooned.  Oh, there they were, be still my heart—all those books that I have been craving (real books, real paper).  The Charles Frazier.  The Alexandra Fuller.  The Erin Morgenstern.  The Diana Abu Jaber.  The Chad Harbach.  I came home with the Harbach, only because the new Michael Ondaatje wouldn't be released until the next day.  (They had it in the store, I know they did, but the crafty lady at the front desk made like they didn't.)  

Oh, I want to read.  Oh, what writer doesn't.  Oh, yes.  My life is blessed.  But.  I just really want to sit and read.  I want to use this blog to celebrate the work of others.  I want to get the balance right.

Let me close by celebrating Miss Sarah Laurence, a multiply talented writer, critic, painter, photographer (and mom) who, despite being in the middle of writing a few books herself, took the time to read You Are My Only and to write so intelligently about it.  I won't hijack any of her words.  I'll just send you here.  Talk about balance, Sarah.  It's just so perfect.

Thank you.

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Book Making, Fundraising, School Speaking, Thanks: A little about a lot

I'm going to spend this beautiful day in the company of the students and faculty of the Country Day School of the Sacred Heart, which chose Dangerous Neighbors as its summer read. 

Before I head out, I wanted to share these few things:

First, readers of this blog know how moved I was by the Logan Schweiter Fundraiser, which took place at Club La Maison.  Today, at Generocity.org, in a story called "A Spectacular Act of Love," I report on the remarkable efforts of literally hundreds of people who together raised an extraordinary amount of money on behalf of a young local teen still recovering from a near drowning following a storm.

Second, yesterday morning I had a chance to read the Vanity Fair story "The Book on Publishing," which can also be found on Nook and Kindle reading apps at vfr.com/go/ebooks.  This extended essay by Keith Gessen takes an instructive look behind the scenes of one of the largest book auctions in recent history, which yielded Chad Harbach, a first-time author, a $665,000 advance from legendary editor Michael Pietsch for the novel (ten years in the making) called The Art of Fielding.  Anyone who ever wondered just how major parts of the industry work will have questions answered here.

Finally, a bouquet of gratitude to Medieval Bookworm, for her eloquent words about You Are My Only, and a thank you to Caribousmom for letting me know those words exist.  I am, as always, very grateful. 

To the Country Day School I now go.

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