Humbled, Part 2

Cover of Freedom, if you have access to the dust cover! Ha ha!

Hello again, ladies and gents. Sorry about the severe length of time between parts 1 and 2, but, aside from my inane forced morning writing (most of which–unless its good–goes into completely private entries on this to be stored IN THE CLOUD), I’m really a sort of “when the mood strikes me” writer. Frustratingly enough for all of you readers waiting with baited breath for the next morsel of written word from Waffles Incorporated, my writing energy this last week has been funneled into staying afloat; I feel down, but I’m gonna write my way out!

Another development that falls into the good/bad dichotomy is that, due to circumstances that I foresee to be temporary, the ingenious and awesome book swapping program is currently on hold. This means a lot of things to me personally, but the way it effects you, readers, is that your long anticipated write-up of Bossypants is probably going to take quite some time. However, the “good” side has to do with the fact that I have to funnel my thoughts and feelings and whatnot into something, right? So I can only imagine more writing coming your way.

In the meantime, let’s talk about Freedom a bit! I said in part 1 that I felt “amazed, humbled, stunned and inspired all at once,” and that couldn’t be truer. I was looking forward to really kind of workshopping this book and talking a lot about it, but that opportunity has passed by until my brother-in-law reads it, so my thoughts are a bit scattered since I haven’t play-tested them.

First and foremost, what jumps out to me about Freedom is how completely mundane the plot is. If you’ve read it and found yourself having to describe the plot succinctly, you might be able to relate to the feeling of having a heck of a time summarizing it without sounding like you’re simplifying the plot. To me, that is the mark of a hell of a work of fiction. For instance, one of my other desert-island books is Richard Russo‘s amazing Empire Falls–the plot of which can be summarized as “a small town father deals with his life in a dwindling, recession-hit town in Maine.” Really, while it’s not a detail filled description, it’s not really reductive, either. Books like Empire Falls and Freedom are a great reflection of how our lives, while simple in description, are full of rich and complex detail.

Freedom is about a woman and her loved ones and how they go through, eventually realizing who they are.

I actually backspaced through several renditions of that, trying to parse out exactly what I was getting across. I don’t think that short summaries should editorialize, so perhaps I’m in danger of giving you just one man’s interpretation of the final layout, but I’m gonna go out on that limb.

So why did it inflict in my humility? For the exact reasons stated above: making simplicity into a book a reader can’t put down. By all rights, the only place one would find a bereaved and life-questioning housewife and an aging, hasn’t-changed-at-all rocker is in a soap opera (or maybe one’s own life–who am I to know?). But Jonathan Franzen is able to write these characters and give them real feelings and real thoughts; what they think and experience is so real that I challenge every reader of Freedom to not feel like Franzen was writing about you specifically at some point in the novel. In doing so–in making us relate almost 1 for 1–Franzen does a tremendous job showing us that we all have frailties, because you’re never “rooting” for the same character the whole time. Every character does things that are horrid things to do to a loved one or another person or an industry, but then they have amazingly redemptive moments; no one is a villain, just like in reality. It gives the reader a new perspective on the people in your life and makes you realize that no matter how well you know a person (or how much you love them), you can never read their mind. All we can ever do is trust: trust that our loved ones will let us in their heads.

As far as inspiring? How can any writer read Freedom and not want to write the next great American novel? There’s a trope in the “writing world” that the best writers are the best readers. I say “best” readers and not “most active” readers, because something that’s always stuck with me is the saying from a friend “Practice doesn’t make perfect, perfect practice makes perfect.” In that sense, writers “should” read a lot, but in this writer’s opinion, I get a lot more out of books like Freedom–books that challenge me with regards to my own life–than books like Twinkie, Deconstructed, which just taught me things in a boring way. (Allow me a quick sentence to defend my beloved non-fiction: I love non-fiction and the good stuff is exempt!)

I wanted to say a few words about the remake of Arthur starring Russel Brand, and his autobiography Booky Wook, however I think you’ll forgive me if I say that I’m not in the mood where I want to visit some subjects right now. Not because I’m trying to forget, but some things are getting put into a different filing system in my brain. However, I highly recommend seeing Arthur if you like fun and cute.

Also, a closing word on E-Readers. I was asked recently in an interview whether I was a, “Buzz person or a Woody person.” I actually had to think–I really thought about it a lot. I thought about the times in my life when I’ve felt most at peace–when I’ve felt most, I dunno, connected to something. I’m not purposefully trying to be abstruse, I’m just having difficulty describing the feeling. It’s that feeling that Whitman talks about in Leaves of Grass and what Thoreau talks about beautifully in Walden. When have I felt that sort of connectedness?

If I filter out the contentedness and calmness of a lot of interpersonal moments of the past, I settle on the times I’ve been out–away from everything. I recalled sitting on the hood of a car in the middle of nowhere, Iowa, after having driven through a one intersection town lit by the lights in the windows of a farmhouse on the corner. There was a gravel road that led to nothing, and stars for forever. If you were to ask me in those moments whether or not I would forsake technology, I would be tempted. I’m a Woody person, at my core. A romantic dreamer longing to be connected. But that doesn’t make me a luddite; I love gadgets a ton, and I love technology. But exchanging, swapping, talking and planning about acquiring physical books with an important someone opens ones eyes to the idea that there are a lot of things that are imbued with something more than their intrinsic value. When people swap books they’re not swapping objects or digital data, they’re swapping ideas, thoughts and feelings. If everyone had e-readers and only digital copies could be shared, a lot would be lost. Physical books are things that you allow you to literally breathe them in, to literally touch them, and to mentally absorb them. With e-readers, more than with MP3 players or digital movies, the soul of books are lost. It just took me a lot longer to realize that than it should have.

I’ve closed a lot of entries with quotes from the famous Nora Ephron films, mostly because I love them a lot, but also because the scripts are smart and full of feeling. As such, today’s closing is yet another.

“People are always saying that change is a good thing. But all they’re really saying is that something you didn’t want to happen at all… has happened.”

Humbled, Part 1

Let me start out by saying this: I LOVE BEING BUSY! I’ve been involving myself more and more in things that have made me feel productive again–not only outwardly, but within. It’s amazing to me how much better I feel when I hop out of my head and delve into life.

As quick side note, I’m going to post a drawing that a random coffee-shop gentleman did of me. Weirdly enough, there isn’t much more to the story than that; I returned from the bathroom, and he wordlessly handed me a drawing.

Heck of a thing, huh?

Books Read:

**

Books Acquired:

Freedom – Jonathan Franzen

Devil In The White City – Erik Larson

Arlington Park – Rachel Cusk

Well! I began typing this roughly an hour ago when I got home, but due to talking on the phone, talking on the internet, making lunch and now Liverpool v. Manchester City, I have utterly lost my train of thought!

Stay tuned because I was gearing up to write about:

• How Freedom has so far made me feel amazed, humbled, stunned and inspired all at once.
• How I want to read Bossypants very badly and why I love autobiographies
• How I plan on buying Booky Wook because I loved the film Arthur
• and why I’ve decided that, ultimately, in a 180 turn, I realized that I really dislike the idea of e-readers
  

Oh My Stars and Garters

SKYLAW!

For those of you who don’t know, the title isn’t a non-sequiter, it’s an exclamation used by none other than Dr. Hank McCoy, aka: the X-Men’s Beast. He typically uses it when he is surprised by something, or something catches him off guard.

This will not be a long post, in fact, it won’t go much more than these next few lines.

Tiny Fey wrote a memoir! I wasn’t aware of this until now. I want to read it so badly I could spit.

Bossypants

Coming to A Waffles Incorporated near you soon!

Egress, Part 2

Twinkies. Grotesquely, I crave one.

I have finally, at last, finished Twinkie, Deconstructed.

The tour-de-force rundown of the Hostess Twinkie ingredient list started out as a hell of a thing. For instance, I had no idea of how complex the production of corn syrup was, or that the reason you see various and seemingly nonsensical vitamin percentages in things like Wonder Bread is because the government enforces enrichment standards. That blew my mind. At its source, ingredients like wheat and corn are enriched with vitamins in a ridiculously complex (and apparently TOP LEVEL secret) process. The reason is, as non-toxic, non-taste effecting enrichment processes are found, government and industry officials see them as a quick and easy way to get obscure but important vitamins (like Vitamin B) into our bodies.

However, for all of the “oh, that was interesting” moments within Twinkie, Deconstructed, there are five times as many moments where my reaction was, “holy moly did I read that last paragraph? I swear I did, but damn I can’t recall anything I just read.” The problem isn’t the subject matter; the reason I bought the book in the first place was because I liked the idea of tracing the ingredients in a famously artificial snack food. However, author Steve Ettlinger didn’t seem to know his audience. Twinkie had a tendency to get bogged down in really specific details. I like knowing how the ingredients go from source to processing to production–those are the things that are interesting to me as a reader who is not a chemist or industry worker. Ettlinger decides to spend pages on $10 words and unexplained lingo, and it not only hurts the flow of Twinkie, but it hurts us, the reader.

Finishing Twinkie, Deoncstructed was an exercise in what readers have to struggle with on a regular basis: do you finish a book that you’re having a hard time getting through? My policy has as much to do with my mood at the time as it does with how much time I’ve already invested in the book. I started out with a huge interest in Twinkie, I would even go so far as to say that I couldn’t put it down for the first third. However, I realize now that I was running on external forces–my mind wanted to escape mourning and loss, and was devouring anything and everything it could grasp. Eventually, like a marathon runner, I hit a wall. After applying a complex algorithm, I determined that I had invested too much time in Twinkie to not see it through to its conclusion. Also, my determination may have had something to do with the outline of the book–its chapters follow the ingredient list, all the way down to the color dyes. Because of that, I almost felt a compulsion to see it through to the end; I wanted to understand the Twinkie in its entirety.

I’ve already taken a big bite of A Visit From The Goon Squad, so I’m about to be knee deep in good ol’ fiction. From what I’ve read so far, I think I’m going to be in for a hell of a ride. However, weirdly, I’m having trouble really getting a grip on fiction again; my mind wants essays. It’s as if I’m craving a certain type of food, but eating another–sure, it still tastes good, but it’s not satisfying.

A friend said something that stuck with me in typical me fashion: “Maybe we watch too many movies.” It was said because we were all goofing around spouting off movie quotes (a not-exactly-foreign activity to the people with whom I hang), but I’ve been doing a lot of overhaul of my mental state (I’m about a week away from choosing classes and being enrolled in college this fall), and I’ve been toying with “maybe we watch too many movies.” I love books, movies, television and all forms of media, but I wonder if this sort of fiction intolerance is a symptom of this overhaul. I’m getting myself back on the track to becoming real–back on the track to having my own life and seeing where people and things fit in around me. This is just temporary, I’m sure (I do love me some fiction), but in a way, I like it. I’ve spent a lot of my time this year not living my own life as deeply as I could have, and I’m getting a good handle on how to go about enriching myself. I’ve realized that I like where things are going, and I don’t want or need fiction to escape it right now.

To come down from lofty existentialism, I should mention quickly that, in the midst of what became one of the most fun and memorable day-long-hangout sessions I’ve had in a long time (and one in which I really did feel happy and alive and living), I acquired some new stuff from a library book sale. Also, I’ll have Franzen’s Freedom and Klosterman’s Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs incoming.

Egress, Part 1

Cover of Eating the Dinosaur

The latest foray into the world of books is brought to you by a series of unfortunate events in my life. Due to all of those current events and my emotional/mental state, I’ve been reading something during every free second of my day, more or less. Here’s the breakdown of books since I lasted wrote about books:

Books Read:

Twinkie, Deconstructed – Steve Ettlinger

Eating The Dinosaur – Chuck Klosterman

Mr. Funny Pants – Michael Showalter

Franny and Zooey – JD Salinger

Of Mice and Men – John Steinbeck

The Grapes Of Wrath – John Steinbeck

Books Bought:

Twinkie, Deconstructed – Steve Ettlinger

Eating The Dinosaur – Chuck Klosterman

Visit From The Goon Squad – Jennifer Egan

Sunday was the beginning of what would become a surreal, sad, uncomfortable and lonely week. This isn’t the time nor place to delve, but simply understand that there’s a reason I’ve run away into the comfort of the written word, and a reason I knew I had to buy some new books that day. I knew when I stepped into the bookstore that I needed to find some nonfiction. In times where I want to spend my time drinking coffee and pretending I’m not in reality, I don’t want to meet new characters, I don’t want to become engrossed in another life. My first stop, as usual, was the Society/Culture Commentary section, where I found Eating The Dinosaur.

I’ve been a fan of Klosterman since I heard him speak in Iowa City, and I think I may have been the only person in the audience (including the people I was with) who hadn’t read Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs. In fact, I still haven’t, and my enjoyment of Eating The Dinosaur has made me realize that I really should. Friends and allies heed my call: if you have a copy of Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, please contact me so I can ask you to borrow it.

Centrally, Eating The Dinosaur is my favourite type of non-fiction: a collection of essays on various topics written by a sharp author whom I enjoy. Best of all, Klosterman’s voice is the kind that makes me want to be a writer. We all have authors we love who we feel embody certain aspects of our own personalities; when we read an author we love, it almost seems like they’re talking directly to us–they make you want to listen because it feels like they understand you. Klosterman, at least in his non-fiction, is one of those authors to me. Sadly (I’m sure he’d be hugely broken up about hearing this), I don’t think he would make a top 5 list of my favourite books, but whenever I read his essays they give me a lot of momentum and keep my mind tickled, occupied and enriched; they sneak up on you with enjoyment, like a Disney animated movie.

One thing that I’m grateful to Klosterman for is making it “ok” for pop culture laden leftists nerds (like him, like me) to love sports. There’s always this expectation that people who possess Star Wars memorabilia can’t also cry because of sporting results. In fact, I’ve gotten downright astonished looks from people when they learn that, in addition to being able to give you real names of all the current Justice Society members, I can also tell you the strongest 11 for all of the English Premiere League clubs, or tell you that Ray Hamilton is a great example of the type of recruiting Ferentz can do.

Needless to say, my favourite essay in Eating The Dinosaur is the one dedicated to football. In fact, Klosterman gives us this:

Let me begin by recognizing that you–the reader of this book–might not know much about football. In fact, you might hate football, and you might be annoyed that it’s even included in this collection. I’m guessing at least fifty potential buyers flipped through the pages of this book inside a store, noticed there was a diagram of a football play on page 147, and decided not to buy it. This is a problem I have always had to manage: Roughly 60 percent of the people who read my books have a near-expert understanding of sports, but the remaining percent have no interest whatsoever. As such, I will understand if you skip to the next essay, which is about ABBA.

Then he simplifies the language he previously used to describe the aforementioned play, and it’s hilarious, but I’m not going to type the whole damn book out. However, you absolutely must read this book (I’ll swap it for …Cocoa Puffs!) if you are interested in reading about: Ira Glass, the Unabomber, Irony, Friends, or really anything. In closing my talking about Eating The Dinosaur, however, I am going to transcribe one more bit of the football chapter that clearly shows that Klosterman and I are soul mates. Feel free to replace any instance dealing with gridiron football in the quote with soccer and we’re good to go:

…My obsessional with football has risen every single autumn. I love watching it and I love thinking about it. I want to understand why that happened. I assume it is one of three explanations or–more likely–a combination of all three: Either (a) the game itself keeps improving, (b) the media impacts me more than I’m willing to admit, or (c) this is just what happens to men as they grow older. I suppose I don’t care. I’m just glad to have something in my life that is so easy to enjoy this much. All I have to do is sit on my couch and watch. It is the easiest kind of pleasure.

…I don’t know what I see when I watch football. It must be something insane, because I should not enjoy it as much as I do. I must be seeing something so personal and so universal that understanding this question would tell me everything I need to know about who I am, and maybe I don’t want that to happen. But perhaps it’s simply this: Football allows the intellectual part of my brain to evolve, but it allows the emotional part to remain unchanged. It has a liberal cerebellum and a reactionary heart. And this is all I want from everything, all the time, always.

Almost on cue as I finished typing that, I was brought back down to Earth by the realities of the moment: I have to attend a wake in an hour and hug people who are crying without crying myself, and I have to stop myself from wanting to call and sing stupid songs to an answering machine…so to speak.

In essence, reading and writing let me escape, and I hate these times where I can’t. I’ll be writing about Twinkie, Deconstructed at a later time, along with all that pesky fiction.

“At Comedy We Only Look”

Image via Wikipedia

It was relayed to me recently that writers are funny. Naturally, I didn’t disagree for a couple reasons. Firstly, I think insofar as comedy is concerned, it’s entirely possible to do worse than me–which is to say that while I’m not gonna be standing in front of a brick wall anytime soon, I think I can crack a howler every now and then. And secondly, I consider myself something of a writer, in the same way someone who ran for fitness would consider themselves a runner or the way someone who has produced some paintings in their basement would think they’re an artist.

Ultimately, my own ego aside, the assessment that writers are funny is totally on the ball. People who write well (here’s where I reach into my bag of rather sly self deprecation, for those of you keeping score) have a tendency to notice the sorts of things the rest of us folk often see straight through, and, in my opinion, observations are at the center of comedy. However, I would take things a step further and say that perhaps it’s not that writers are funny, but that people who are funny are good writers.

One of my favourite comedians is a fella who–and I say this, unfortunately, without sarcasm–a lot of people haven’t heard of: Michael Showalter. Those who do know who he is would know him from a short-lived Comedy Central show called Stella. If not from Stella, then it would have to be from either a film called Wet Hot American Summer or a hilarious early-90′s MTV sketch comedy show The State (or, if you know me in reality, I’ve forced you to watch a brilliant film called The Baxter which has everyone ever in it. Go watch it right now.)

(By the way, if you’re not familiar with The State, not only are you really missing out, but you’re missing the launching pad of probably one of the funniest troupes in comedy. These guys (David Wain, Michael Showalter, Michael Ian Black, Joe Le Truglio et al.) are the guys who brought us Paul Rudd, Amy Poehler, Ken Marino, Keri Kenney, and, believe it or not, Bradley Cooper.)

Anywho, Michael Showalter has a new book out called Mr. Funny Pants that should be arriving any day, if it’s not here already, and I’m really excited to read it. In anticipation, I wanted to tip my hat to comedian writers.

The first book that came to mind was one that kind of came to me out of the blue called Born Standing Up, which is an auto-bio/memoir by Steve Martin. To me, Steve Martin has always been a figure who is just kind of there. I’ve always loved Planes, Trains and Automobiles. And the occasional old SNL skit with him is hilarious–but on the other hand, I’m not hugely familiar with his ridiculous body of work. In fact, I would go so far as to say that, in my life, Steve Martin has been to me what he seems to want to be for himself: a former comedian who is still hilarious, but is enveloped by words and art.

Born Standing Up is truly fantastic. A comedian-scholar like Martin has a way of viewing that world that is unmatched by a lot of folks who decide to write about their lives. Everything he talks about–from working at Disneyland as a kid, to his love of the banjo (a man after my own heart, for sure!), to his Wild and Crazy Guy comedy routine–is used as a vehicle to show us things about himself and, dare I say, the human condition. And best of all, it’s done with the kind of wit and honesty that only someone like him could manage:

In 2003 I hosted the Oscars on the particular weekend that the United States invaded Iraq. The news was grim and just hours before the show I flipped on the TV and saw a report, subsequently proven false, that our captive soldiers were being beheaded. I quickly turned the TV off, sick. I knew, from my experience forty years earlier with the Kennedy assassination, what my job was, and I harbored a secret knowledge that the audience would laugh. I also felt that soldiers who might be watching would be tuning in to see the Oscars and all its hoopla, not a cheerless comedian doing what he doesn’t do best. I decided to acknowledge the circumstances early in the show and then get on with the jokes. The academy had announced that the show would “cut back on the glitz.” I walked out for the opening monologue, took a look around the stage at the dazzling, swirling staircases, mirrored curtains and polished floor, and simply said, “I’m glad they cut back on the glitz.” It got a laugh of relief and the show could go on.

After Mr. Showalter’s book, I want to plunge into Russel Brand‘s foray into the publishing world, Booky Wook (and, I suppose, Booky Wook 2). While I find Brand hilarious (I just split my audience in two, no doubt), I’m anxious to see whether or not he has the sense to be as honest and revealing as Martin. That sort of honesty is a necessary factor for writers who deign to write about themselves; there’s a bit of ego necessary to decide that people will find you interesting enough to plod through a book about you written by you.

The reason, I think, comedians can write about themselves so well–and why, frankly, I have high hopes for Mr. Funny Pants–is that comedy is about observation. And ultimately, anyone who is a skilled enough observer to be funny is surely a skilled enough observer to look into themselves and tell us all about it.

(Thanks to Mr. Aldous Huxley for the half-quote in the title. The full text is: “We participate in a tragedy; at a comedy we only look.”)

Hornbyfest 2011

Weirdly, I just now learned, by way of that picture, that the same people were involved in Grosse Pointe Blank. I love that movie, too!

Today, right now, at this very moment, I am setting in motion a new project: I am going to begin blogging regularly about books. Before I begin in on this first bit, allow me to say a quick word about why public posts have been absent for the last few months.

• Writing about politics is hard.

It’s true. Sure, there is a lot going on, and I certainly have opinions, but when I step up to the plate and stretch my fingers out to begin tip-tapping some of them, I can’t ever seem to get a hit. There are so many people who are much more informed and well-qualified expressing their opinions on much more influential soap-boxes that it makes me feel rather small. Which brings me to my next point.

• The West Wing is intimidating.

Well, it is! I’ve been marathoning through the series (the Sorkin seasons anyway) for the 2nd time in 3 months, and when one’s ideological idol is on screen every episode waxing poetic in beautiful Sorkin-verse (and he is played by Rob Lowe), that’s a tough act to follow. I end up feeling like all I could be capable of doing is cribbing the things Sam Seaborn says. I know this appears as though it’s a ludicrous problem, but think this to yourself: how often do you finish reading a poem or story and sit down to write, only to stop yourself after every line wondering if the reader is going to think you’re blatantly ripping off the words that inspired you?

• I don’t engage on a regular basis with anyone in person.

When I was working and/or at University, there were people with whom I could have the great debate. This is not in any way meant to imply those with whom I spend my time here are not intellectual dynamos themselves. Quite the opposite, in fact; I spend my time with a bright young teacher, an accomplished and hilarious actor, the best conversationalist on the planet and a geotechnical consultant. Not to mention my family loved ones, the outside the box writer/philosopher and the mental health technician. However, they are normal people, not insane nutjobs like me when it comes to this sort of thing, and, regardless of their political affiliations, they are not prone to insane ranting like myself. Without someone frantically and in raised voices arguing with me, it seems as though my blade has dulled…that, or I’ve simply mellowed.

No, I haven’t mellowed, because I got so mad at this video below that I turned beet-red and began to shake enough so that I couldn’t type well for a minute.

Now, someone who was being cheeky could point out that me that I have written a bit about politics just now and to that someone I would say, “Yes. Shut up.” Rest assured, heavier/meatier stuff is still up swimming around in my head, I just need to find the right spigot to make it spew forth.

On to books!

---

Over the last week and a half, I have read every Nick Hornby book I possess. I have a somewhat unique relationship with Mr. Hornby and his works, insomuch as I think they act as a gateway into my very soul. …Ok, perhaps that is a tad hyperbolic, but my point is: I can relate more closely to the situations, characters and feelings in Hornby’s books more than almost any other author I have ever read (except myself. har har. oh shut up Ian).

What draws me to him and connects me so closely to his books is the constant current that runs through all of them: obsession. In the following list, I break down for you the most basic thesis. I like this literature breakdown stuff, so I’m just giving you the off-the-top bits:

• High Fidelity – Popular Culture
• About A Boy – Selfishness
• How To Be Good - Selflessness
• A Long Way Down – Death
• Slam – This, being primarily written as a young adult novel, is a bit of an exception. Although I would argue there’s a theme of ‘fear of growing up’ thrown in.
• Juliet, Naked – Expertise and obsession itself

I won’t go so far as to do the same breakdown to his non-fiction works, despite Fever Pitch being probably the best non-fiction book ever written ever ever. To assign the same sort of metric to his non-fiction would be to deign to apply a thesis to his own life–and who the hell am I but some kid in Iowa he sent some e-mails to?

The persistent themes about obsession speak to me in many ways, largely because I am one of the obessessed. Throughout my life, my tendency to passionately latch on to the newest interest to cross my mind has been a source of criticism and, occasionally, astonishment. Those of us who have a tendency to obsesses do so, I think, out of a sense of mind craziness. That is to say that my mind is never really fit to settle on something. More than just that sense of playing Boggle with everything I see is a deeper motivation: I like knowing everything.

And that brings me back to Hornby’s books. If you take one step beyond the themes of obsession, you find characters who are out of their depth when they have less knowledge than someone else, which in turn means they have less control. The protagonist of High Fidelity–a fella named Rob–stumbles through life guided by chord changes and his encyclopedic musical mind. People are reduced to the sum total of their record collections and interpersonal relationships consist of mix tapes and a chronology of records. When Rob goes on his quest to find out why his past relationships soured, what he finds is that a person cannot simply be what comes out through their headphones.

That knowledge and revelation permeates straight through the page and into the lives of those of us who are afflicted with obsessions. We search out those who can tell us the model number of the spaceships in Star Wars, or those who can rattle off line after line of our favourite films. Or, on the other side of the coin, we reject those who can do so as well as us, for fear that another person with the same knowledge may in fact learn about us what we learned about ourselves through that obsession.

It’s ironic to say this in a post talking about something I love, I know; the things in our lives over which we obsess speak volumes about us, to be sure. But Hornby’s novels show us that the things and ideas upon which we ruminate for hours on end are a byproduct of our own head, and that the effect of peering out from behind the obsession-curtain can yield wonderful results.