All it takes are two seconds for everything to change forever in the second novel from Rachel Joyce whose debut, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, was one of my favorites of the last few years. In 1972, it was necessary to add two seconds to the world atomic clock to make it more accurate and eleven year-old Byron and his classmate, James, privileged English schoolboys both, become fascinated with the concept. Byron lives on a country estate with his little sister and his lovely mother, Diana. She is the Perfectof the title and the centerpiece of the book. Byron's strict father, Seymour, works in finance in London. He only visits on weekends but his stern, demanding presence is felt even in his absence.
The two seconds come into play when Diana drives the children to school on a foggy morning and goes through a "bad" neighborhood. Just as Byron believes he sees the hands on his watch go back two seconds, Diana may or may not have hit a little girl on her bicycle. Byron is certain she has and becomes obsessed with trying to protect Diana. There is also a second, present-day narrative that takes place alongside the Byron and Diana storyline. It is the story of Jim, who at 16 was committed to a mental hospital where he spent most of his life. However, when it closed, Jim was released to fend for himself, something of which he is barely capable. Now in his 50's, he is held prisoner by his own OCD and works wiping down tablesin an unpopular cafe and living in a camper van. Does this all sound like a lot to take in? It is and I haven't even gotten to the meat of the Diana storyline and it gets as meaty as a butcher's shop. So if there's one problem with the book, it's that it can be a little hard to follow. But here's the kicker: it pays off. Stay with it. Be rewarded. Thank me later. I say Rachel Joyce is two for two and has avoided the dreaded sophomore slump.
Before I give Mr. Deford's new memoir, Over Time, the once-over, I would like to wish myself a happy anniversary as it was six years ago this week that this blog was hatched. It has grown some, the look has changed a bit but it is still essentially the same: my thoughts on what I read, like it or lump it. I remain plagued by my procrastinating, something I still can't explain since I'm always much happier once I have written (perhaps a therapist would be of help here) and, of course, my longwindedness and inability to punctuate correctly. Still, my belief in the book and my admiration for those who write them, publish them, and read them has never wavered. If you've spent any time here on this site, read a book because of what I've written, avoided one because of same, or just guffawed a bit, I appreciate it immensely. There are lots of places to go for book info featuring writers far more accomplished than your ol' pal, Reed Next. That said, I do hope you'll stay with me. Eventually, I might even get it write right. I was terribly happy to see The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, Rachel Joyce's delightful debut, made the longlist for the Man Booker prize. Likely a longshot but you never know with awards and with the Britons. Mrs. Next is enjoying the book very much though Mrs. Next reads quite slowly so if I promised to lend you my copy, perhaps you may wish to hold yourself over with another book or purchase it yourself. Her schoolmarming is about to begin for the year and that might mean she won't finish Harold until the holiday break in December.
Now, as for Frank Deford, let me just say this book was a joy. I have long been a fan of his writing and his NPR commentaries. His tenure has spanned a couple of generations of sportswriters and he has watched as sports became less about sport and more about big business.
One of the things I have always admired about Deford is his honesty. He knows college football is a shameless racket, that Americans will never embrace soccer as does the rest of the world, that pro tennis is dead. He'll tell you so in an elegant but straightforward manner, two things lacking in both sports and sportswriting these days.
Best of all, Deford is a gunslinger. His vocabulary, his style, his turns of phrase always make me smile and appreciate how easy he makes it look and how hard it must be to write. Even better, if you like his NPR commentaries, you will read this book and be able to hear his voice, that cadence, and that wink.
To that end, I give you a graph from chapter two as a tiny taste of what I'm talking about:
"I have always believed that, ideally, your memoirs should be filled with anecdotes about other, more attractive people so that you might improve on the necessarily duller parts of the narrative, i.e., yourself. David Niven, for example, wrote memoir after memoir, because he knew all the stylish folk in the world, and wherever they were together, in the Hamptons or Gstaad or on yachts in the Mediterranean, they all had big names and they absolutely adored lunches, so they ate and drank long, languid midday repasts and threw off priceless bons mots, one after the other, for Mr. Niven to dress up his own memoirs with. Alas, although it was not my life's intention at the time when I chanced to become a sportswriter, I have thereafter mostly remained a sportswriter; and I'm afraid athletes don't traffic in bons mots, whether or not I am in their presence with a notepad."
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce has made the Man Booker Prize long list. This will help it acquire the readership I think it deserves and my hopes are high it will make the short list, to be announced in September. Mrs. Next is reading it now and is enjoying Harold's exploits immensely. Go buy a copy.
Recently re-read Ramones: An American Band by Jim Bessman, which I'm happy to see is still in print since it came out in 1993 and thus published well before the deaths of Joey, Dee Dee, and Johnny. Bessman provides a capable chronicle of the band though Peter Guralnick he ain't. Then again, they weren't the type of band or men who needed a bio that went into the detail that Guralnick did. He writes in a simple, straightforward manner much like the music of the Ramones. Best of all, reading it made me re-visit my records. 1-2-3-4!! indeed.
I'm currently reading Who Will Run the Frog Hospital? by Lorrie Moore and I'm perplexed much in the same way I am about Paul Harding's Tinkers: why aren't these books lighting me up? Both contain captivating stories and sparkling prose but they seem to lack drive. Perhaps this is by design but I keep waiting for both to really grab me and with only 40 pages left in Moore's book, I'm left wanting. (I haven't even finished Tinkers and I started that two months ago.) Will their respective endings be what I'm after or are my expectations wrong? I'll find out soon enough.
Went to a re-sale shop yesterday where I always find good books on the cheap. Though pickings were a bit slim, I walked out with an old but intriguing short story collection from 1951, Love In the Time of Cholera, which I'm ashamed to say I've never read, a copy of Russo's brilliant Empire Falls, which I intend to give to a new, young friend, and Illusions by Richard Bach. Many will poo-poo the Bach book but I'm a fervent fan and re-read it most every summer. Since I often lend it out or give it away, I found myself without a copy recently so luck was on my side. Donald Shimoda is a remarkable character and even though Bach is dismissed as mawkish, I just love this story. Poo-poo all you wish. Illusions is to me a pleasure for which I feel no guilt.
Once again, I've been the recipient of much book love, this time from my homie, 'Chele, who sent a care package from Random House, et. al. which contains:
Buddy: How A Rooster Made Me a Family Man by Brian McGory,
Seating Arrangements by Maggie Shipstead about which I'm hearing good buzz,
Robin Shulman's Eat the City, which looks absolutely fascinating,
The People of Forever Are Not Afraid by Shani Boianjiu, about which I know nothing so I'm trusting 'Chele, and
Giving Up the Ghost by Eric Nuzum. The caveat here is that it was blurbed by the insufferable Chuck Klosterman who I think is so overrated, his popularity defies all logic, and by Rob Sheffield, whose rock writing credentials are solid but who grossly disappointed me with Talking to Girls About Duran Duran. It should have been brilliant. It wasn't.
Most exciting is The Cocktail Waitress, the "lost, final novel" by James M. Cain. I'm attempting to keep my expectations low since, if it's so good, one wonders why it wasn't found sooner. Still, if it's half as good as his classic noir tales, it might be a worthy though late addition to his small but influential body of work.
There are times when doing the right thing comes as a complete surprise especially when doing so is completely out of character. So it is with Harold Fry, a man who has been a bystander of his own life. When we meet him in Rachel Joyce's marvelous debut novel, he is retired from his sales job at a brewery, estranged from his wife, Maureen, absent in the life of his grown son, David, without friends or interests or hobbies. Harold just is. But he isn't really. Even in retirement, Harold is an empty suit.
One morning, as he sits at the breakfast table "freshly shaven, clean shirt and tie", he receives a letter from his old colleague from the brewery, Queenie Hennessy, informing him, quite concisely, that she is dying of cancer and nothing can be done. Despite not being in touch with each other for twenty years, she thought he'd like to know. Harold is shaken and stirred. As he walks to the nearby letter box to post a characteristically unsentimental reply, something changes in Harold. He passes another letter box and then another. Then a chance conversation with a counter girl at a convenience store puts everything into focus for Harold: if he keeps walking, he is certain Queenie will live. If he treks the 600 and some miles from Kingsbridge to Berwick-Upon-Tweed, he can save Queenie. Unprepared, out of shape, wearing boat shoes and a suit, with little money and no cell phone, off he goes. By the journey of Harold Fry, Queenie Hennessy will live.
As he makes his way, Harold opens himself up to the spirit of the journey. He will stick to the main roads despite knowing there are quicker ways to cover more miles. He will befriend strangers and listen to their life stories. He will accept help, grudgingly at first. By accident, Harold's quest even becomes newsworthy and soon others join him on the road, fervent in their belief in Harold's belief, all walking to save Queenie though many with agendas of their own. Harold, never one to rock the boat, suffers but presses on.
As for summarizing, I will leave it at that. I have left you in a good place and there is much more to Harold's story. I do encourage you to read this work for yourself which will hit stores on July 24. That said, I must add that I cried throughout the book for Harold, for Maureen, for David, and for Queenie. Joyce's prose is spare and tight and I admire the economy with which she has told this tale. There is a portion of the book that takes on some Forrest Gumpiness but that is expected and easily forgiven because it is a novel that is generous and deeply satisfying. While a good man is hard to find, look no further than Harold Fry.
All it takes are two seconds for everything to change forever in the second novel from Rachel Joyce whose debut, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, was one of my favorites of the last few years. 
