The Anthologist
The writer鈥檚 block of a poet becomes the excuse for Nicholson Baker鈥檚 daft, brilliant, hilarious novel.
It鈥檚 not every writer who can change the way you think, but Nicholson Baker has made a career of making us sit up and take notice of things we often overlook. He forever altered our perception of shoelaces in his first book, 鈥淭he Mezzanine鈥� (1988), which many have, up to now, regarded as his best. It details a man鈥檚 thoughts as he rides an escalator after buying shoelaces on his lunch hour.
More recently, Baker sounded the alarm on our culture鈥檚 disappearing archives of old books and newspapers in his 2001 National Book Critics Circle-award winner, 鈥淒ouble Fold.鈥�
Baker alienated some readers with the unpleasant obsessives who populated his novels 鈥淭he Fermata鈥� (1994) and 鈥淐heckpoint (2004)鈥�; and with his last book, 鈥淗uman Smoke,鈥� an unorthodox, questionable history of World War II. But he deserves to win them back with The Anthologist, his eighth book of fiction (and 12th book overall), which may well change the way you look at poetry 鈥� and the way you rank his work.
鈥淭he Anthologist鈥� is a corker, a brilliant, hilarious, utterly eccentric paean to rhyme and meter narrated by a poet of minor renown named Paul Chowder who鈥檚 grappling with writer鈥檚 block as he faces a deadline for an introduction to an anthology of poetry he鈥檚 selected called 鈥淥nly Rhyme.鈥� He鈥檚 accident-prone and has credit-card debt and no health insurance (鈥淒eath is my health insurance鈥�). Worse, his girlfriend, Roz, has given up on him and moved out of his Portsmouth, N.H., home after eight years. He鈥檚 desperate to win her back.
Voice is everything in first-person confessionals, and Paul Chowder鈥檚 is a hoot. By his own admission, he鈥檚 not normal, though he鈥檚 got enough self-perspective to note, 鈥淚 mean, if you stand back from my life just a little 鈥� maybe 35 yards 鈥� I am a completely conventional person. I drive mostly within the fog lines. My life is seldom in crisis.鈥�
Baker has always wielded language 鈥� and his enviable vocabulary 鈥� like a precision tool. Having a poet narrator enables him to let loose with unusual metaphors and similes at every turn. Chowder knows poetry backward and forward, and he鈥檚 got strong opinions, including a penchant for love poems and rhyme.
Noting the prevalence of depression among poets, he claims they are 鈥渙ur designated grievers.... All these poets, when they begin to feel that they are descending into one of their personal canyons of despair, use rhyme to help themselves tightrope over it. Rhyming is the avoidance of mental pain by addicting yourself to what will happen next. It鈥檚 like chain-smoking 鈥� you light one line with the glowing ember of the last.鈥�
Regardless of poets鈥� sadness, Chowder thinks that 鈥淭here are too many poems about death,鈥� which he feels is 鈥渁 mistake of emphasis.鈥� Why? Because 鈥淒eath is really a small part of life, and it鈥檚 not the part you want to concentrate on, because life is life and it鈥檚 full of untold particulars. For example, take my briefcase. Is there anything about death in my briefcase?鈥�
Emphasis is of prime importance when it comes to meter, the battlefield onto which Baker sends Chowder to do hand-to-hand combat. He hates the dominance of iambic pentameter. Most poetry, he insists, is actually four beats 鈥� although the fourth is often a rest. To prove this, he scans everything from Ludwig Bemelmans鈥檚 鈥淢adeline鈥� to Swinburne, Dryden, Elizabeth Bishop, and hip-hop, which he calls our light verse, commenting hilariously at one point, 鈥淎re you with me? I feel like I鈥檓 making an exercise video.鈥�
The ways of avoiding work are infinite, and it鈥檚 an art that Baker has Chowder take to delightful new heights. He mows his lawn and strings a beaded necklace for Roz (but then wonders whether it would be a greater gift not to give it to her so she won鈥檛 have to 鈥渙ccupy her mind with my obvious wish to woo her back鈥�). He cleans out his barn office, tracks the progress of a mouse in his kitchen, helps a neighbor lay a floor, and fantasizes about a weekly podcast called Chowder鈥檚 Bowl of Poetry. He gives a reading in Cambridge and attends a conference in Switzerland. But mostly, he expostulates on poetry and on poets鈥� often grim lives in a way that will engage even resolute prose-only readers.
Along the way, there are some terrific images (鈥渢he overboiled potato of the moon鈥�); some fun wordplay (鈥淟ove means nothing in tennis, as you know. Frost said that free verse was like playing tennis without a net. Lawn Tennyson.鈥�); and even a few excellent writing tips (Write about the very best moment of your day). It all adds up to a passionate, daft, winning discourse on why not just poetry but personality and good writing matter.
Heller McAlpin, a freelance critic in New York, is a frequent Monitor contributor.