Reader's Block Book

Hard Slogging

Reader's Block, like its successor, The Last Novel, reads like a collection of author's notes, random ideas that come his way which might be useful in a future narrative to be written by the subsequent Novelist Who pulls things together.

In Reader's Block, Reader appears as a magpie collecting fragments of mostly literary opinion and gossip. Reader is rapacious and has no clear filter for what is relevant - a sort of literary omnivore - tittle-tattle, biographical detail, prejudices (particularly anti-Semitism), and apocryphal anecdotes.

Reader's companion, Protagonist (perhaps the prospective Novelist in reflective mood), presents questions about himself - his background, motivations, elements of character, etc. These are a sort of probiotic questions, preparing the mass of material for subsequent digestion. Presumably Protagonist is attempting to give some structure to Reader's random acquisitions.

Perhaps because I read them in the wrong order, I found Reader's Block less interesting and less witty than The Last Novel. The individual factoids were less impressive and the whole appeared a sort of groping in the dark for a theme. Perhaps that was Markson's intention. Writing of any quality is a messy business.

If so, he captures the tedium of an author's business exceptionally well. It's undoubtedly a grind and a drone finding material and inspiration. But then there is a definite element of watching paint dry in observing Markson's ironic portrayal of himself.

I have a narrative. But you will be put to it to find it.

Markson's short work of experimental fiction weaves together strings of historical facts (Frederick Delius was paralyzed and blinded by syphilis.), quotations (Pouring out liquor is like burning books. Said Faulkner.) and endless references to the horrors of humanity and human suffering (Two of Thomas Mann's sons committed suicide. As did two of Marx's daughters.), with the patches of a novel the Reader is trying to write.

Sometimes a paragraph is nothing more than a word…

Bitburg.

… which meant nothing to me until I looked it up and found that Bitburg, on Christmas Eve 1944 was almost entirely destroyed by air raids, earning it the grisly nick-name the dead city.

Markson knows how to pack a wallop using sparse language. But understanding what he's doing takes a lot of time and patience and research. Unless of course you're a brilliant trivia wizard who knows the significance of St. Martin's Churchyard or the name of Caligula's favored horse.

Incitatus.

For me, not a page went by where I wasn't baffled by the endless references to people and places I'd never heard of. Imagine having this wealth of knowledge! And Markson wrote this before the days of Wikipedia!

Did you know that Milton was paid five pounds for Paradise Lost? That Isaac Newton died a virgin? That there's no mention of Ockham's Razor in anything that Ockham wrote?

Did you know that Hemmingway was an anti-Semite? Voltaire? Heiddegger?

American poet John Berryman committed suicide by jumping from a bridge. Austrian physicist Ludwig Botzmann committed suicide by hanging. French painter Constance Mayer committed suicide by slashing her throat with a razor. We are all familiar with the mad genius, the tortured artist, but never are we confronted with it quite as boldly as we are here.

I couldn't read it. The human mind isn't that complex. Said Einstein, returning a Kafka to Thomas Mann. Ah, but it is!

This book could easily be read in one sitting, but researching the endless names and places could take an eternity. I could spend an eternity reading and rereading this book, always finding something new and interesting. Markson's genius is unparalleled. Yet go to a Barnes & Noble and it is unlikely that you will find his books on the shelves. Surprising?

Fifteen years after 'Moby Dick,' Melville had to pay to publish 'Clarel.' With borrowed money.

And we wonder why so many brilliant men and women eliminate their own maps. I don't mean to trivialize here, but there is just so much wrong with the world...