cindypager's review
4.0
I hadn't read previous Frank Bascom tales, and it took me a while to get into this, but I found it strangely compelling. The strange part is that I didn't find Frank all that likable.
fictionfan's review
A digressive, long-winded, over-adjectived, frequently-hyphenated contemplation of the middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-of-the-road American...
Frank Bascombe sets out to have a meeting with his ex-wife. Five immensely tedious reading hours later and nearly a third of the way through the book, he hasn't yet got there. But he has digressed endlessly on those subjects that seem to obsess the white, middle-class, middle-aged American male – their health, the fact that they don't understand their children, their ex-wives (almost always plural), their sexual prowess or lack thereof, and the way the country is going to the dogs. I admit defeat – I can't take any more.
I feared right from the beginning that I was going to struggle with this book. Straight away, Ford gets into existential crisis mode with our narrator, having been diagnosed with prostate cancer, fearing that he is not ready to make his maker. Five hours later, I was unsympathetically thinking that he shouldn't worry – he has plenty of time left since he has the ability to turn every hour into a yawning eternity of angst. It took me four days to read that five hours' worth, because I had to keep stopping to remind myself that actually life isn't a dismal wasteland of pretentious emptiness – or at least, if it is, then I prefer my own pretentious emptiness to that of the tediously self-obsessed Frank Bascombe.
Each line of sparse and unrealistic dialogue is separated by two or three paragraphs analysing the one before and anticipating the one to come, while every noun is preceded by roughly eight, usually-hyphenated, increasingly-convoluted-and-contrived, unnecessary-except-to-fill-up-the-space adjectives...
And frankly, until I tried to read this book, I thought I was fairly fluent in American. After all, I coped with Twain's dialect in Huckleberry Finn and Steinbeck's in The Grapes of Wrath. But it appears not. Even my Kindle's built-in US-English dictionary didn't recognise more than half of the words I looked up. Has he invented this language? Or is it a kind of slang that was fashionable a decade or so ago and has now been already forgotten? Whatever, if it's comprehensible to Americans then that's what matters, of course, but I think I'd have to wait for the translation to become available. Though I'm in no rush for it...
It's not just made-up words and jargon related to the property market that's a problem for the non-US reader, it's also his use of brands as a shortcut to description – fine if the brands mean something to the reader, otherwise irritating. And he constantly does the same with what I assume are cultural references...
I'm not blaming the book for being 'too' American – why shouldn't it be? - but it did make it impossible for me to get into any kind of reading flow, since I was constantly either looking things up or trying to work out the meaning from the context. I'm quite sure that was a large part of why I found it such a stultifying read, but I'd have tolerated it if I'd felt the book was shedding light on anything that interested me. But I'm afraid the trials of the well-off educated American male don't, particularly. Shall I eat wheat-grain or indulge my wicked side with a 'furter? Let me list all the things I wear so you can understand my social position. I spent $2000 dollars on Thanksgiving lunch – cool, eh?
Buried amidst the heap of unnecessary wordiness, there is probably some insight on what it is to be middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-of-the-road and male in Millenium America, and there may even be bits that are funny. Sadly I lost my ability to laugh at around page 5, but am hoping it may return now that I've abandoned it. Is there a plot or a story? Not that I noticed, but maybe it becomes a gripping read once he gets to the meeting with his ex-wife, if he ever does. I guess I shall never know...
So how did it do on the Great American Novel Quest? *laughs hollowly* I think we all know the answer to that one...
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
Frank Bascombe sets out to have a meeting with his ex-wife. Five immensely tedious reading hours later and nearly a third of the way through the book, he hasn't yet got there. But he has digressed endlessly on those subjects that seem to obsess the white, middle-class, middle-aged American male – their health, the fact that they don't understand their children, their ex-wives (almost always plural), their sexual prowess or lack thereof, and the way the country is going to the dogs. I admit defeat – I can't take any more.
I feared right from the beginning that I was going to struggle with this book. Straight away, Ford gets into existential crisis mode with our narrator, having been diagnosed with prostate cancer, fearing that he is not ready to make his maker. Five hours later, I was unsympathetically thinking that he shouldn't worry – he has plenty of time left since he has the ability to turn every hour into a yawning eternity of angst. It took me four days to read that five hours' worth, because I had to keep stopping to remind myself that actually life isn't a dismal wasteland of pretentious emptiness – or at least, if it is, then I prefer my own pretentious emptiness to that of the tediously self-obsessed Frank Bascombe.
Each line of sparse and unrealistic dialogue is separated by two or three paragraphs analysing the one before and anticipating the one to come, while every noun is preceded by roughly eight, usually-hyphenated, increasingly-convoluted-and-contrived, unnecessary-except-to-fill-up-the-space adjectives...
...elderly, handsome, mustachioed, silver-haired, capitalist-looking gentleman in safari attire...
...a fetid, lightless, tin-sided back-country prison...
...a smirky, blond, slightly hard-edged, cigarette-smoking former Goucher girl... (what on earth is a Goucher girl? All those words and yet he still fails to communicate his meaning.)
And frankly, until I tried to read this book, I thought I was fairly fluent in American. After all, I coped with Twain's dialect in Huckleberry Finn and Steinbeck's in The Grapes of Wrath. But it appears not. Even my Kindle's built-in US-English dictionary didn't recognise more than half of the words I looked up. Has he invented this language? Or is it a kind of slang that was fashionable a decade or so ago and has now been already forgotten? Whatever, if it's comprehensible to Americans then that's what matters, of course, but I think I'd have to wait for the translation to become available. Though I'm in no rush for it...
...skint black hair...
...business lunch and afternoon plat-map confab...
...against every millage to extend services to the boondocks...
My life in Haddam always lacked the true resident's naive, relief-seeking socked-in-ed-ness(!!!)...
It's not just made-up words and jargon related to the property market that's a problem for the non-US reader, it's also his use of brands as a shortcut to description – fine if the brands mean something to the reader, otherwise irritating. And he constantly does the same with what I assume are cultural references...
He knows I bleed Michigan blue but doesn't really know what that means. (Nope, nor me.)
This means a living room the size of a fifties tract home. (So... tiny? Huge? Average?)
Mike frowns over at me. He doesn't know what Kalamazoo means, or why it would be so side-splittingly hilarious. (Again, nope – pity, because by that stage I could have done with a laugh.)
I'm not blaming the book for being 'too' American – why shouldn't it be? - but it did make it impossible for me to get into any kind of reading flow, since I was constantly either looking things up or trying to work out the meaning from the context. I'm quite sure that was a large part of why I found it such a stultifying read, but I'd have tolerated it if I'd felt the book was shedding light on anything that interested me. But I'm afraid the trials of the well-off educated American male don't, particularly. Shall I eat wheat-grain or indulge my wicked side with a 'furter? Let me list all the things I wear so you can understand my social position. I spent $2000 dollars on Thanksgiving lunch – cool, eh?
Buried amidst the heap of unnecessary wordiness, there is probably some insight on what it is to be middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-of-the-road and male in Millenium America, and there may even be bits that are funny. Sadly I lost my ability to laugh at around page 5, but am hoping it may return now that I've abandoned it. Is there a plot or a story? Not that I noticed, but maybe it becomes a gripping read once he gets to the meeting with his ex-wife, if he ever does. I guess I shall never know...
So how did it do on the Great American Novel Quest? *laughs hollowly* I think we all know the answer to that one...
www.fictionfanblog.wordpress.com
bearforester's review
3.0
Maybe 3-3.5 stars.
This is the third, and final book, by Ford about the same character. It isn't some Lord of the Rings type trilogy. Rather, Ford wrote a successful book (the Sportswriter), followed it up years later with a Pulitzer prize winner (Independence Day), and then decided to finalize the tale with The Lay of the Land many years later. Similar to what John Updike did. The character ages with the author, which is interesting. However, this book takes place during the unclear 2000 presidential election period, so while written recently, feels a little older.
It is interesting reading about an aging man's take on life and the prospect of death, and like the first two books, it is filled with a fair amount of humor. However, while well written (there is a reason he won the Pulitzer earlier in his career), at times it is a little too long winded for me.
Overall, while this book started weak (I wouldn't have continued reading if I hadn't read the other books about this character), it improved, and I liked it a lot more by the end. Overall, I think that Independence Day is the weakest strangely, given that it won the award. The Sportswriter was the best, and is strongly recommended.
This is the third, and final book, by Ford about the same character. It isn't some Lord of the Rings type trilogy. Rather, Ford wrote a successful book (the Sportswriter), followed it up years later with a Pulitzer prize winner (Independence Day), and then decided to finalize the tale with The Lay of the Land many years later. Similar to what John Updike did. The character ages with the author, which is interesting. However, this book takes place during the unclear 2000 presidential election period, so while written recently, feels a little older.
It is interesting reading about an aging man's take on life and the prospect of death, and like the first two books, it is filled with a fair amount of humor. However, while well written (there is a reason he won the Pulitzer earlier in his career), at times it is a little too long winded for me.
Overall, while this book started weak (I wouldn't have continued reading if I hadn't read the other books about this character), it improved, and I liked it a lot more by the end. Overall, I think that Independence Day is the weakest strangely, given that it won the award. The Sportswriter was the best, and is strongly recommended.
candecast's review
5.0
The Lay of the Land is the second book I've read by Richard Ford. I should've read the previous two novels, but this story pretty much stands on its own. Ford's writing is his pure Americana; it captures a picture of us, that is already outdated, but still relevant in many respects. What could be more Americana than a real estate broker? The story is nostalgic, and in this COVID-19 pandemic era, it had me wishing for the good old days of the oughts.
Frank Bascombe is not a complicated character. He represents the typical middle-aged American man, grappling with issues that a lot of middle-aged men around the world wish they had. He is wealthy, lives in an exclusive neighborhood, has prostate cancer, goes through a third failed marriage, and struggles with the loss of his oldest son by suicide. The relationship with his only surviving son intrigued me the most. I really couldn't understand where his son was coming from other than a young male, spoiled rotten, and no sense of what direction he wants his life to take. His son's attitude drove me crazy, and I just wanted to reach out and slap him.
I see a lot of myself in this story; perhaps that is why I could relate to it. I was the same age as the protagonist in this story during the early oughts, and I could relate to a lot of the feelings that Frank Bascombe expressed. It's said to think that I feel nostalgic for that period because when I was there, like Bascombe, I was embarrassed that Bush was president. He seemed like such a dolt! Living in a COVID-19 world has me yearning for the good ole post 9/11 world.
Frank Bascombe is not a complicated character. He represents the typical middle-aged American man, grappling with issues that a lot of middle-aged men around the world wish they had. He is wealthy, lives in an exclusive neighborhood, has prostate cancer, goes through a third failed marriage, and struggles with the loss of his oldest son by suicide. The relationship with his only surviving son intrigued me the most. I really couldn't understand where his son was coming from other than a young male, spoiled rotten, and no sense of what direction he wants his life to take. His son's attitude drove me crazy, and I just wanted to reach out and slap him.
I see a lot of myself in this story; perhaps that is why I could relate to it. I was the same age as the protagonist in this story during the early oughts, and I could relate to a lot of the feelings that Frank Bascombe expressed. It's said to think that I feel nostalgic for that period because when I was there, like Bascombe, I was embarrassed that Bush was president. He seemed like such a dolt! Living in a COVID-19 world has me yearning for the good ole post 9/11 world.
ericfheiman's review
3.0
Not quite as good as "The Sportswriter" or "Independence Day" but necessary reading for any fan of these previous two Frank Bascombe books. At very least, required reading for any budding real estate broker.
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