The first
time I tried to read George Saunders’ Tenth of December, I had been
drinking. After two pages I had to put it down. If you tackle Saunders’ book of
short stories, I recommend you do so well-rested and sober. I mean that as a
compliment. It should have your undivided attention.
It’s
true, Saunders’ writing style takes some getting used to – it’s part diary,
part stream of consciousness – and sometimes there’s not much regard for
grammar or punctuation. Some of the stories start mid-action. And sometimes, as
with our own lives, the endings are abrupt.
But once
I got started, I was fascinated by this collection of unnerving and surreal
stories. A review by Jennifer Egan on the book jacket called the book
subversive and hilarious. While I agree with subversive, I thought nearly every
story was quite sad. Some stories will make you cringe. Some will make you flip
back and forth between pages to make sure what you think happened actually
happened. Nearly all have a sense of dread and a fantastical element that isn’t
quite science fiction, just a sense that the stories take place in a
not-to-distant, not-to-nice future.
While the
time and place of some stories is unclear, the characters are all very human.
They are all weighed down by their humanity and as a result, most act in
desperation. Maybe that’s what makes the book so sad.
Saunders
deftly writes as a variety of characters – boys, girls, mothers, fathers. In
“Victory Lap” there’s Alison, an idealistic teenager, who dislikes the
neighborhood boys because they “name their own nuts” and “aspire to work for
CountryPower because the work shirts were awesome and you got them for free.”
Callie is
the desperate mother from “Puppy” who goes to extreme ends to keep her son
safe, but questions her actions, “Who was it that thought up the idea, the idea
that had made today better than yesterday? Who loved him enough to think that
up? Who loved him more than anyone else in the world loved him? Her. She did.”
And then
there is the sympathetic Eber from the “Tenth of December” who has a last shot
at redemption and life and realizes “if some guy, at the end, fell apart, and
said or did bad things, or had to be helped, helped to quite a considerable
extent? So what? What of it? Why should he not do or say weird things or look
strange or disgusting? Why should the shit not run down his legs? Why should
those he loved not lift and bend and feed and wipe him, when he would gladly do
the same for them?”
The book
is composed of 10 short stories. The shortest is a mere two pages, and the
longest, the spectacular “Semplica Girl Diaries,” is just 60. I didn’t read the
book in one sitting, but I read each story without interruption.
If
getting wrapped up in a good book is like running a marathon, reading Tenth
of December is like sprinting through an obstacle course. There are
many things that can trip you up on the way, but once you get used to Saunders’
style, with all its idiosyncrasies, it is worth the effort.
