Gasp!

The emotional residue of John Cheever's 'Falconer'

It's been well over a decade since I read John Cheever's "Falconer." While the details of the story have slipped from my mind, the emotional residue remains. It makes me remember where I was when I read it: San Francisco, 1994/5, lying in a loft next to a window overlooking San Francisco Bay. There was a bare bright light inches from my face. Cramped quarters, my former home.

I'm not sure what intrigued me about Cheever's book, but upon finding it in a common area of a hostel back then, I felt compelled to read it. And I did, all the way through. I couldn't shake the feeling of grayness, concrete and suffocation. It left an impact.

An article about Blake Bailey's new biography about Cheever on the New York Times' site made me remember that feeling as if I read the book yesterday. Some people are able to recall details of a story, but what I remember is residue. Sometimes I see it as a color or I'll "feel" the book's imprint energetically, even when I remember very little about the book itself.

It makes me question the importance of memory. If I ever had a brain injury, I would still carry the emotional residue of the books I've read. Maybe I wouldn't be able to recall reading them, but whatever impact it left on me would still be there.

Book Review: Manhattan

Manhattan
by Neal Travis
Crown Publishers, 1979, 212 pages

This book ended up in Decatur, Alabama where I bought it for a dime and I would love to know how it happened. How could a book, about beautiful New Yorkers wind up in a thrift store shack?

The main character is the New York magazine called Manhattan. All of the characters are tied into the magazine. The publisher, Michael Glennon, must fight a hostile takeover of his empire. Jamie Kilgour, a gay gossip columnist, wants to prove his worth as a reporter. Both Glennon and Harry Cave, Managing Editor, are having an affair with Jane, Glennon’s secretary.

Peripheral characters are patterned after famous people. Leon Spielberg is similar to Stephen, except that he’s a 70-year old bald director. Glenda Davis is a dead-ringer for Bette, and Louise appears to be a nod to Linda Ronstadt. These little character asides are fun, but also distracting.

"Tales of the City" by Armistead Maupin was published in 1978, and "Manhattan" is reminiscent of it. Whereas Maupin wrote about the characters and their relationships with each other, Travis writes about the space between the characters. Which is to say, he’s writing about thin air. The pace of the book is fast, too fast to get to know anybody.

Perhaps it mimics life in the Big City. In between the mafia, bricks of cocaine, famous locales, and pseudo-celebs, there’s very little substance. Maybe that’s why the apple on the cover looks like more like tomato.