Name of the World Book

The protagonist of this slim novel, Michael Reed, is currently a history professor in a Midwestern college. His wife and young daughter have died in an auto wreck. He's somewhat numb. He meets a young (20ish) woman who is, well, exotic. Her 'name' is Flower Cannon. He's drawn to her but not sure exactly why; maybe sexually but not exactly. The plot gets a little dreamy. He winds up with her 'at her place' which is like an abandoned school away from anywhere else. She asks him, unexpectedly, "Would you like me to tell you the story of my name?"

It's the name of the world. The Name of the World.

This book is exquisite. It's also written without chapters, so one scene just morphs into another. Before you know it, you've run out of pages.

Our protagonist actually meets many more people although the oxymoron Flower Cannon is the key to the story and whatever profundity is intended. And he also has many more jobs than college professor. He once worked, prominently, for a conservative legislator. This makes some people wary of him. But when asked directly what he thought of his former employer, Reed offers, "I had stayed with the Senator at first in the hope of having influence, later in the hope of being there on the day of his defeat, finally in hope of gathering evidence to bring him down. But he was clean, and it wouldn't be fair to omit saying that he was even a good man. It's just his principles were small and his horizon was November."

And of government in general: There's a perfect stillness at the center of Washington….It's natural to talk about it in paradoxes…. Everything in the world is going on there, but nothing's happening. It's all essential, but it's all completely pointless. The motives are virtuous, but whatever you do just stinks. And then you retire with great praise.

I don't know if I understood the allegory correctly. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. That would require more plot spoiling than is decent.

But it's about a whole lot more than government. We are taught that mankind was not made for close confines. And much more.

Denis Johnson, for me, is either hit or miss. I really liked Tree of Smoke but thought Fiskadoro was complete (and intentional, shame on him) gibberish. So this was a surprise, random hit for me. But I like it when I feel an author is speaking directly to me, as Johnson is here, when he writes:

My habit when I've been humiliated is to go out and buy a book.