It is rather hard to say in conventional
terms why this is such a satisfying novel.
It has two parts and a postscript.
Each of the parts is divided into chapters of a few pages, which are in
turn divided into paragraphs of narrative and description that range from a
page and a half to a line or so and are separated by centered rules. All the paragraphs in a given chapter tend to
be related to an incident initially described.
In the first part, a number of small incidents occurring to a man
staying in a mountain resort are told several times each with small
variations. In the second part, the
narrative recounts possibly the same man going to a funeral, to a café, perhaps
after the funeral and where he may meet a woman or other friends, and to a
garden at night or a room where he may dwell with similar echoing
framings. The postscript of a few pages
repeats material from the second part in more conventional paragraphing.
The action manifests in a haze of
indefiniteness. If I were reaching for fancy
metaphors, I would say it was like the impossibility of knowing both the
location and the momentum of a particle in quantum physics. The descriptions may contradict themselves
and are often interrupted with equivocal asides like "if you will,"
or "or perhaps," or "at this time.” that delocate them in the dimensions
of certainty. Things are often described
with two consecutive adverbial phrases that overlap in meaning but do not
coincide exactly, as "in a café or restaurant.” These constructions suggest that the author
is projecting a reality that is only imperfectly knowable, or can only be
imperfectly put into words.
Let me give you and example. Note that
examples are hard to choose. Superficially many paragraphs seem very much alike,
but when you examine them they have differences that make it hard to select one
as typical. Here is a sequence of three:
He
is wearing a hat as he walks down the street. He has no hat. He is on his way
to the café to meet his friends, associates, for lunch. He is walking down the
street in a part of the city that has a, more or less, quaintly industrial feel
about it. He is in the city, and he is
going to meet her at the café, or restaurant. And it is still, in fact, hard to
believe, sometimes. It is indeed still, sometimes, and hard to believe that
what has happened has, in fact, happened. It is a surprise, in the way that
many events in the past months and weeks and days, have been a surprise. It is
a surprise, he feels, and a shame, somewhat. It is a shame, somewhat, because
there are things that could've been done differently. There are things, he
feels, that could have been done that would have made all the difference in the
world. But then, of course, nothing could have been done. Still, he stands very
well. He cuts a fine figure as he walks down the street. It is his defining
moment. A golden moment, if you will. Yet things could have been very
different, he feels.
--------------
He
is standing in the middle of the street. He is standing on an island, a
concrete pedestrian traffic island, in the middle of the street. He is waving
to his friends, associates, gesturing, somewhat wildly, humiliatingly, in a
way, doing a kind of dance, almost a dance, trying to get their attention.
-----------------
His friends, associates, are
talking and drinking beverages in the café. It is after the funeral, and the
café, is more or less, crowded that day.
I usually consider novels from the
viewpoint of prose, plot, characterization, and theme. These tools of criticism
are not very useful here. The prose is consistently good, steadily solid,
particularly evocative of mood, but not exciting in itself. There are many brief narratives,
but no plot. The mood and thoughts of
the protagonist are often and movingly described, but they do not add up to a
vivid sense of a character. We are privy to many of his thoughts and feelings,
but not to his past or future, not to who he is. The theme is the poignant familiarity of
uncertainty. The operation of the theme is how we pay close attention in a continuing
experience of small variations. In a way the theme is attention, both the
pleasure of it and the futility of it.
But that is a theme shared by the author
and the reader -; for the protagonist there is no theme.
Yet we continue to read, and are glad we
do, and are both satisfied at the end and sorry that it is over as in a well-plotted,
conventional novel.
Something is going on that questions
whether plot and character as I usually think of them, are fundamental to the
pleasure and function of a novel.
What is going on?
Let us
say that at its most fundamental what keeps us reading or listening to
narrative in general is the tension that arises from uncertainty. We may want
to know how the plot comes out; we may want to know how a character will
further express him/herself. One thing that keeps us reading Blind Spot is pervasive
uncertainty. This uncertainty is poignantly connected with mood. Blind Spot has
a dark even ominous mood, something that resembles what I would call Middle
European melancholy, the mood of writers like Kafka, parts of Kundera, and Imre Kertész's Selfless or Péter Nádas' A Book of Memories. For
example, we vaguely suspect that the funeral in the second part is the funeral
of the protagonist, but at other times are reassured that, though he is ill, his
illness is not fatal. We hang longingly in this uncertainty.
This novel differs from most also in the
cover blurbs. Where most blurbs are transparently meaningless hype, on the back
or this book are five brief essays by smart writers, each attempting to put
across how the book is so good. I will quote one, T. C. Tlbert:
Blind Spot weaves a new structure for
narrative, forces the reader to consider the complex and profound structures
hidden in a record of time, each observation of the utterly quotidian
transforming into a lyrical evocation of essential significance. Each
repetition is a surprise…
Amanda Ackerman adds "… Each sentence
feels like it undoes a lie."
