海角大神

Poets get a bum rap. While I don鈥檛 doubt the variety exists, I鈥檝e never actually met a pretentious one 鈥� at least not one who had actually been published 鈥� outside of the pages of a book. Granted that I live in the Midwest, but I鈥檝e never come across a beret, cape, or fake British accent among the lot.

Paul Chowder, whom readers first met in Nicholson Baker鈥檚 2009 novel, 鈥淭he Anthologist,鈥� would fit right in 鈥� except that he鈥檚 giving up on poetry.

Paul, who is still pining for Roz, the woman who had left him in 鈥淭he Anthologist,鈥� has decided to switch to songwriting in Traveling Sprinkler, a novel as meandering yet grounded as the titular invention. "I realized I didn't want to write sad complicated poems, I wanted to write sad simple songs. In other words, I want to write sad poems that are made happier by being singable," he says, before buying an acoustic guitar in a cardboard box from Best Buy.

Paul鈥檚 former training as a classical bassoonist may or may not be of assistance in his new endeavor, but it sure doesn鈥檛 help him as a lyricist. Take an early example of a protest song: 鈥淚鈥檓 eating a burrito, and I鈥檓 not killing anyone/ I鈥檓 eating a burrito, baby, and I鈥檓 not killing anyone.鈥�

The good news is that 鈥淥nly Rhyme,鈥� the book he was struggling with in 鈥淭he Anthologist,鈥� is still selling, and he can always shrink-wrap boats for some extra money.

Paul spends his days trying to learn to write pop and love songs and musing about perfect inventions such as the traveling sprinkler and Debussy鈥檚 鈥淭he Sunken Cathedral,鈥� going to Quaker meetings, watching 鈥淭he Office鈥� reruns, working out at Planet Fitness, and driving in his beloved Kia Rio.

鈥淚 like writing in the car. I can drive somewhere, park, put my notebooks and my papers on the dashboard, clamp on my headphones, and think hard in all directions,鈥� he says.

He also has taken up smoking cigars. (He鈥檚 given up alcohol and believes he needs a new vice. 鈥淚t鈥檚 my brown period,鈥� he tells a horrified Roz.)

There鈥檚 also plenty of time to discuss drone warfare, Stravinsky, Keats鈥� poem, 鈥淲hen I Have Fears,鈥� why he thinks Picasso is overrated, and take carefully aimed swings at the poet Archibald MacLeish.

鈥淚 feel like a traveling sprinkler that鈥檚 gotten off the hose. I don鈥檛 know where I鈥檓 going. I鈥檓 unprepared. Good for me,鈥� Paul says.

Like the sprinkler, whose journey across a yard may look aimless, by the end of the novel, Paul has managed to nourish almost everyone he comes in contact with, including the reader.

While his lyrics have a certain deadpan hilarity, Paul鈥檚 writing about music and poetry is thoughtful in its clarity. Take his description of why DeBussy wrote 鈥淭he Sunken Cathedral鈥� in C major: 鈥淐 is like water, clear and simple and bright and transparent, composed entirely of white keys, but if you hold down the pedal and play the clear white notes together in a certain way, the sound becomes blurred and pale blue and lost in haze, like a distant monument seen through water. He swam closer toward the cathedral, and its image became more clearly defined, with pounding, towering, unblurred C major chords, until he reached middle C or middle sea. That鈥檚 what 'The Sunken Cathedral' is 鈥� it鈥檚 the piano of his whole life."

Paul鈥檚 longing for Roz is the center of the novel. He is turning 55, the same age DeBussy was when he died, and he鈥檚 asked Roz for an egg-salad sandwich for his birthday. They鈥檒l have a picnic: She鈥檒l bring egg salad, he鈥檒l bring carrot sticks and a picnic basket.

鈥淵ou really can鈥檛 ask your former girlfriend for a guitar, even a cheap guitar. It鈥檚 too momentous a present. It presupposes too much. It puts her in an awkward position. And of course you can鈥檛 say, 鈥榃hat I really want is I want you back,鈥� either,鈥� he says.

Roz, who works in public radio, has taken up with a doctor whom, Chowder sniffs, thinks he鈥檚 Oliver Sacks. But she still has a certain residual fondness for Paul. As apparently directionless as his plans may appear, there is a method to Paul鈥檚 wooing, and the two dear, quirky people are impossible for a certain kind of reader 鈥� this one most definitely included 鈥� to resist.

While 鈥淭he Anthologist鈥� is probably a better place to start to meet both Baker and Chowder, time spent with either is never wasted.

Yvonne Zipp is the Monitor fiction critic.