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In 2008, Zadie Smith wrote inThe New York Review of Booksthat there were two paths for the novel.
Smith praisedRemainderas an avant-garde exploration of the limits of language and perception.
InNetherland, she wrote, only ones own subjectivity is really authentic.
My only cause for disgust, need it be said, was my own blackheartedness, he says.
The year is 2015.
We know where the worlds stupidity will lead us.
If all this makes Wolfe sound like a disagreeable presence, nothing could be further from the truth.
All of this was done under the rubric of personal brilliance.
Lefebvre is a drunken, chain-smoking sage who waxes philosophical about the beautiful game.
He possesses all the attributes of the savant: acceleration, touch, match awareness, courage.
With Marks assistance they are able to locate Godwin in Benin.
Mark and Lefebvre are ready to fly to Cotonou and retrieve him.
Without giving too much away, suffice it to say that Mark does not go to Benin.
Lefebvre does travel to Benin and reappears later in Pittsburgh to recount what happened there.
But the narrative we were seemingly promised has been denied us.
I would have read the hell out of that book.
Why didnt ONeill write it?
Call it the anxiety of realism.
This tendency is evident inGodwin, too.
ONeill has a major problem.
What a loathsome, vicious, unacceptable description!
Mark cries, referring to Lefebvres sketch of limbless beggars.
(Also,Lakesha?
The problem is: its amazing.)
This is at least one response to those who allegedly use lovely language as a substitute for genuine expression.
But that doesnt mean the realists have to abandon the more unnatural devices of their craft to be authentic.
Nor will we tire of lyricism if it is the right vehicle for a thought or a feeling.
Beyond its borders is the dark sea.
Or a bit of autofiction smuggled in?
It doesnt really matter because it feels true.
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