A review by slothrop
The Sportswriter, by Richard Ford
4.0
This book was difficult. It was mature and older than I am, its life and characters and feelings and understandings. It also had nearly nothing to do with sports, thank god.
At first, I didn't understand the point of the story. It meandered and veered and discussed and was altogether introspective of its narrator and main character, Frank Bascombe. A relatively simple man who craves simplicity in life, but has been handed extraordinary hands of fate. A dead son, a sleepy fugue state that leads to a rather crushing divorce, a career switch, death of his dreams, loss of almost all important relationships save his two living children, who are too young to interpret their father's futile grasp for normalcy and ease. Not even by page 70 (my go-to for a novel-understanding benchmark) was I under the impression that I even liked this book. I'd say by maybe page 200 or so (of 375) I realized all was not for naught. Suddenly it clicked with me that this was a novel about the everyman, the rogue humans, the artists, the welders, the stockbrokers, the politicians, the teachers, the writers -- it was about death and secrets and spirituality and anxiety and happiness and ultimately the power of forward thinking, optimism, and honesty. And I'd say though it had a cynical air through most of the novel, both Frank and I suppose Ford understand that happiness is possible every day, but it's not always easy. Life doesn't hand you what you ask for, but whether what you get is better or worse isn't for you to curse or thank. You keep rolling with the punches, smile and bear it, enjoy the journey.
P.s. the writing was of a master. The voice was consistent, the echoes of Faulkner palpable. What I like about Ford is what I love about DeLillo -- the frankness of their written truths in a solid simple sentence. It was astounding to read such a persuasive written work.
At first, I didn't understand the point of the story. It meandered and veered and discussed and was altogether introspective of its narrator and main character, Frank Bascombe. A relatively simple man who craves simplicity in life, but has been handed extraordinary hands of fate. A dead son, a sleepy fugue state that leads to a rather crushing divorce, a career switch, death of his dreams, loss of almost all important relationships save his two living children, who are too young to interpret their father's futile grasp for normalcy and ease. Not even by page 70 (my go-to for a novel-understanding benchmark) was I under the impression that I even liked this book. I'd say by maybe page 200 or so (of 375) I realized all was not for naught. Suddenly it clicked with me that this was a novel about the everyman, the rogue humans, the artists, the welders, the stockbrokers, the politicians, the teachers, the writers -- it was about death and secrets and spirituality and anxiety and happiness and ultimately the power of forward thinking, optimism, and honesty. And I'd say though it had a cynical air through most of the novel, both Frank and I suppose Ford understand that happiness is possible every day, but it's not always easy. Life doesn't hand you what you ask for, but whether what you get is better or worse isn't for you to curse or thank. You keep rolling with the punches, smile and bear it, enjoy the journey.
P.s. the writing was of a master. The voice was consistent, the echoes of Faulkner palpable. What I like about Ford is what I love about DeLillo -- the frankness of their written truths in a solid simple sentence. It was astounding to read such a persuasive written work.