Ten Years Later

The forward-thinking librarian who heads the Montlake reading group selected Colum McCann’s Let The Great World Spin right as the world was remembering all the pain and trauma of September 11^th, 2001.  We were to have read it and discussed it weeks prior to the actual date, but I was a little behind schedule, only really finishing as news media and journalists set the time up for renewed attention. 

For quite some time I read Let the Great World Spin as a story.  It was New York.  It was Ireland.  It was brothers.  It was family.  It was a monk.   It was race and Vietnam.  It was street life.  It was the 60’s.  Then we met the tight-rope walker, dancer, performer, master.  The towers come into view and the pieces are all coming together quickly, finally, clearly.

There were no favorites for me.  Every character had a pretty unique story which could have stood alone in New York as a valid point of view and way of life.  Timing was so crucial to the life and death of each person McCann creates on his way that as a reader I begin to wonder whether the next move of any character will throw them under the rails of love or tragedy.

New York is one city in one time and place, but seems to be everything and all its own, too.  The people in New York City have a story, but McCann really makes a case for the city having a story that the people participate in.  The buildings are part of New York, and New York is part of its buildings, but even they are not the determiner of the city, but only some part.  New York is still whole when men and women grieve, yet when they lose too much all of New York is not enough.

Tinkers

Tinkers was full of tingles. The imagery of a man dying and reliving aspects of his life, while the reader learns about areas he never knew, was captivating. No sentimentality, no gore, just sweet endings to a sometimes bitter history. Renal failure, clocks, hallucinations, epilepsy, harsh winters, moonshine and excerpts from The Reasonable Horologist are all pretty new topics for the novels I’ve read. That Paul Harding intertwines them all so well that I look forward to each bit of the story, never knowing what will come next, is exceptional.

More about Harding’s writing style is that it was full of beautiful imagery. These were snippets of ideas and a day here or a day there in the lives of a father and son. Very little came in a straight line, allowing me to read as disjointedly as I did without feeling any loss of continuity. That I read this book for my new Montlake reading group (which is the biggest and oldest so far that I’ve attended in Seattle) means that I also got to be part of a great conversation about the book.

Overall, Tinkers received some extremely high praise in this circle. Those who’d attended the death of a parent were able to identify with the physical and mental changes described. Those who’d lived in cold weather or overcome adversity or experienced sufficient closure understood many of the novel’s themes. Only questions of all the unmentioned years still perplex. But this was not a memoir, and our principal character, George, was not interested, on his deathbed, in how his mother managed, and he did not dwell on how he got through school. No, George wanted to think about his father, and about all the money he’d stashed in his tool shed.

Each character of Harding’s novel has a particular set of impressions of life. Each is insightful. Each is limited. The novel felt true, and that is novel indeed.