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3.64 AVERAGE
3.64 AVERAGE
PULITZER PRIZE WINNER: 1996
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My feelings are a little all over the place with this one.
It's the second book of a trilogy, and though there are a lot of past events referenced, some or all of which I imagine were present in the first book, I never felt particularly lost and do think this can be read as a stand-alone. I'm sure I'd have gotten more out of it and better understood the characters with some additional context, but I never felt I needed it, and TBH, I have no desire to read any more in this series.
While significantly more palatable than the [b:Rabbit, Run|40656712|Rabbit, Run|John Updike|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1530116550l/40656712._SY75_.jpg|802269] books (which I loathe), it still has that general vibe of white middle-class suburban man feeling a sense of ennui with life, and I just don't fucking care. I thought the writing here was (ofc) quite brilliant and droll, and there were a number of amusing observations and thoughts. But it also has that quality that I hate and that ~literature~ loves when it comes to the Great American Novel, where everything is just sort of vaguely depressing and happiness seems impossible while everybody just sort of floats around with discontent as all life's dreams prove fruitless. It's just not fucking enjoyable, and also not all that reflective of life IMO. The dialogue here was so bizarre to me--who talks like this!?! Maybe people did in the mid-1990s, but every conversation here was so vague and non-nonsensical, with nobody actually saying anything directly or of import, and we're just sort of supposed to understand through osmosis what is actually happening. It made for an incredibly frustrating reading experience, as I wanted to shake every single character to get them to have actual conversations instead of faux-metaphysical musings tied to their character and relationship.
Basically, this is exactly the kind of book I feared it would be, except (thankfully) slightly more palatable as the protagonist wasn't a total racist, misogynist dirt-bag (only a bit of one).
===
My feelings are a little all over the place with this one.
It's the second book of a trilogy, and though there are a lot of past events referenced, some or all of which I imagine were present in the first book, I never felt particularly lost and do think this can be read as a stand-alone. I'm sure I'd have gotten more out of it and better understood the characters with some additional context, but I never felt I needed it, and TBH, I have no desire to read any more in this series.
While significantly more palatable than the [b:Rabbit, Run|40656712|Rabbit, Run|John Updike|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1530116550l/40656712._SY75_.jpg|802269] books (which I loathe), it still has that general vibe of white middle-class suburban man feeling a sense of ennui with life, and I just don't fucking care. I thought the writing here was (ofc) quite brilliant and droll, and there were a number of amusing observations and thoughts. But it also has that quality that I hate and that ~literature~ loves when it comes to the Great American Novel, where everything is just sort of vaguely depressing and happiness seems impossible while everybody just sort of floats around with discontent as all life's dreams prove fruitless. It's just not fucking enjoyable, and also not all that reflective of life IMO. The dialogue here was so bizarre to me--who talks like this!?! Maybe people did in the mid-1990s, but every conversation here was so vague and non-nonsensical, with nobody actually saying anything directly or of import, and we're just sort of supposed to understand through osmosis what is actually happening. It made for an incredibly frustrating reading experience, as I wanted to shake every single character to get them to have actual conversations instead of faux-metaphysical musings tied to their character and relationship.
Basically, this is exactly the kind of book I feared it would be, except (thankfully) slightly more palatable as the protagonist wasn't a total racist, misogynist dirt-bag (only a bit of one).
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
This book was glacially slow paced. The main character is a middle aged, divorced white man with a lot of unacknowledged privilege. I suspect this was insightful material for a certain set of people when it was written in 1996, but nearly 20 years later it feels very dated and dull.
This is probably my favorite book. Most people don't like it and think I'm crazy. This is a story of a middle-aged divorced real estate agent in his 40s who takes his kid to the Baseball Hall of Fame. That's it. Along the way, the narrator listens to phone messages and does a lot of thinking. Not much happens in the book. It's just a whole lot of interior monologue and characterization.
Because I loved the writing and could identify with the main character, I thought this book was excellent. His other books with the same narrator (The Sportswriter and The Lay of the Land don't come close. But on second thought, perhaps I got tired of the protagonist's melancholy. Maybe my friends' critiques -- that the main character should get a life -- are correct after all.
Because I loved the writing and could identify with the main character, I thought this book was excellent. His other books with the same narrator (The Sportswriter and The Lay of the Land don't come close. But on second thought, perhaps I got tired of the protagonist's melancholy. Maybe my friends' critiques -- that the main character should get a life -- are correct after all.
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
I don’t remember much about The Sportswriter, but I do remember thinking it was magnificent. This I find harder to quantify; gorgeous writing, a beautifully drawn unreliable narrator, but I can’t shake the sense that it’s all a little dishonest …how many people really talk or think anything like people do here … especially in the middle of the novel’s only true ‘crisis’ event in the final third; some of the conversation and inner monologue then is hard to credit.
Well written with lots of detail about minutiae that most of us gloss over in daily life. The main character is depressed, lost and a bit clueless...I appreciated the social commentary of beings real estate agent and all of the baggage that people carry in daily life...that suddenly rise to the surface in a real estate transaction. An entertaining read, but more of a Jonathan Franzen style story that just isn't my favorite.
An excellent read, although a so so ending. Fascinating to hear in the interview attached to the audible book, is that Richard Ford has dyslexia.
Ford's second Bascombe book. A lot of brilliance. Definitely a career high point and worthy of the Pulitzer it won. The Baseball HOF scene is devastating. Quite a snapshot into late 80's America, the acme of The New Materialism. Ford takes the big swing at a number of issues including race relations and while today's audience will cringe at all the references to "Negro" and "Colored," the first-person narrator Frank Bascombe feels real. Much to admire here, occasionally drags--but then again this is a 450-page novel. Some humorous turns. Makes me want to finish the trilogy (I'd already read this train's caboose, Let Me Be Frank, his collection of FB short stories--though I'm sure I'll revisit it now). To know Frank, I think, is to know a big part of Ford.
One thing at which I sort of marvel is Ford's way of describing parenthood. Very unsentimental. Although... Bascombe's big Achilles heel is his inability to fully connect. He keeps everyone at a remove--you know, like a childless author. Unapologetically selfish. I'm not sure Ford could write a character like Bascombe if he'd experienced actual fatherhood. Which makes a strong case for writing outside of one's familiar zone. I don't think it disqualifies Ford from writing about parenthood--he brings something to the table--fearlessness?--an experienced father could not. Not dissimilar to seeing/inhabiting a white character through the eyes of a person of color. There's a real debate going on about this right now. I will only say this: writers love to IMAGINE. We need to hear all voices and writing can be an exercise in empathy.
One thing at which I sort of marvel is Ford's way of describing parenthood. Very unsentimental. Although... Bascombe's big Achilles heel is his inability to fully connect. He keeps everyone at a remove--you know, like a childless author. Unapologetically selfish. I'm not sure Ford could write a character like Bascombe if he'd experienced actual fatherhood. Which makes a strong case for writing outside of one's familiar zone. I don't think it disqualifies Ford from writing about parenthood--he brings something to the table--fearlessness?--an experienced father could not. Not dissimilar to seeing/inhabiting a white character through the eyes of a person of color. There's a real debate going on about this right now. I will only say this: writers love to IMAGINE. We need to hear all voices and writing can be an exercise in empathy.
Ford’s sequel to the Sportswriter gives us everyman Frank Bascombe in the middle of his Existence Period, sparked by the divorce and remarriage of his ex-wife, and grounded in progression, moving forward, and not dwelling on the past. Bascombe strives to find meaning in his own existence, alone with his thoughts (which are many and what makes these books so great), covering memories of life, ideals of home, relationships with lovers and his children, and just accepting adulthood for what it is: not spectacular, not bad even, just good enough to survive, to keep moving forward, to having peace. Through this all, Frank performs his realtor duties (in many funny scenes with the Markhams), tries to patch things up/understand with his new girlfriend Sally, and ultimately find independence and solitary in the relationship with his troubled son on their trip to Cooperstown, taking on the role of the father who projects wisdom that he honestly may not completely understand. As Frank survives, makes memories, and tries not to dwell on the past but always look forward, progress through life and as a person, he begins to accept life for what it is: not spectacular, but not a bad day to be on earth.
Loved this in high school, and just finished re-reading it, accidentally in honor of the 4th of July.