A Book Review From The Soap Box

...Or the demise of modern American Literature in popular culture

I recently read Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier.  I picked it up at an airport, motivated primarily by my enjoyment of his earlier novel Cold Mountain.  Thirteen Moons is adventurous love story set in the Cherokee Nation.  The timeline covered is relatively vast, as the story is told by the 100+ year-old protagonist.  A young boy is sold into servitude by relatives following the death of his natural parents.  Against all odds, he becomes wildly successful, is adopted by a Cherokee Chief, fights in the Civil War with his tribe, loses his fortune, and eventually finds it again.  Mr. Frazier includes interesting events that appear to have historical significance, yet he also includes a bold disclaimer pertaining to locations, individuals and events.  In the end, it can only be accepted as a work of fiction.

Despite raving reviews from the Los Angeles Times, and The Boston Globe, I disliked this book.  On a scale of -3 to 3, zero being neutral, I would give it a -1.  It would be possible for me to recommend a zero, but I will not recommend anything lower.  There is one word that came to mind repeatedly as I read:

contrived |kənˈtrīvd|

adjective

deliberately created rather than arising naturally or spontaneously : the carefully contrived image of party unity.

• giving a sense of artificiality : the ending of the novel is too pat and contrived.

I will briefly explain:

 - Thirteen Moons and the Native American in popular culture.  The use of "moons" to measure Native American time is overdone in various media, including literature.  So overdone in fact, it is used frequently in parody.  Mr. Frazier uses the moon and its phases to measure time throughout the novel.  He also uses various Cherokee names for moons as an attempt at symbolism.  I found it transparent and, well, contrived.

 - Sex.  Sex.  Sex.  Two people love each other. We'll make it clear with sex.  Not just once, but hundreds upon hundreds of times.  On top of mountains, on sunny rocks in rivers, you name it.  Sex is the easy way out.  It is a cheap shot.  It's Jerry Springer.

 - Rags, riches, rags, riches.  A tiring cycle with a happy ending.  What happened to Hemingway? Steinbeck?  Melville?  The list goes on and is unbelievably long.  The timeless classics are crafted with care and reveal tiny bits and pieces of intricate humanity in a way that begs interpretation and contemplation.  The entire story seems somehow trite.  The lone white boy, adopted by a Cherokee Chief, eventually growing to fight the evils of Manifest Destiny and the wicked machinations of Jackson, O'Sullivan, et al.

And that is the end of the review.  Here's where I go off-

Within hours of putting a novel down, I have the inclination to discuss it.  Thirteen Moons was no exception, so I unloaded my disappointment upon my beloved.  It turns out we both share a good deal of dissatisfaction with many novels of the day.  Once the water had boiled to steam, it was apparent that our disgust relates to lack of creativity, the abuse of cliche, devaluation/abuse of profanity and graphic sexual encounters.  Far too often these "tools" are used to resolve plot deficiencies or compensate for general literary weakness.  Should you choose to disagree, I would recommend Shakespeare's Richard III.  Shakespeare paints a scenery of darkness and evil using common, yet well-placed words.  Even today, his words ring in the ears and stir the soul.  Consider the often elusive opening:

Now is the winter of our discontent 

made glorious summer by this sun of York;

Wow.  Talk about the archetypal metaphor!  The disfigured Richard refers to himself as the winter-ending sun as he plots to overthrow his brother's kingdom.  Read it.  An hour could be spent discussing a single sentence at the climax of the play composed of about seven words.  With my limited understanding of Shakespeare and literature in general, I have not been able to identify any cheap shots or short cuts.  Though there my be cliches of which I am unaware, The opening sentence of this play has taken life unto itself.  It does this because it lives.  You likely know exactly what the "winter of our discontent" feels like.  Prior to Shakespeare, this had not been placed into words.  So profound it is, that Steinbeck used the line as a title for one of his novels, and  Steinbeck was no hack.

Richard III

Just this morning, I read Isaiah chapter 2.  Is it any wonder that the likes of Robert Hunter (lyricist for the Grateful Dead) mined the bible for language and symbolism?

19: And they shall go into the holes of the earth, for fear of the Lord and for the glory of his majesty, when he ariseth to shake terribly the earth.

20: In that day a man shall cast his idols of silver, and his idols of gold, which they made each one for himelf to worship, to the moles and to the bats;

22: Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils: for wherein is he to be accounted of?

Isaiah chose uncommon, yet appropriate symbolism, and these are the images that stick.  The act and reason for throwing one's idols to the moles and to the bats is clear.  So clear in fact, I have been thinking about idols, moles and bats all day.  Had I read some impotent regurgitation reviling idolatry, I'd have probably bought a motorcycle by now.  I have ideas about verse 22, but I am not completely sure.  The imagery of breath within the nostrils stuck, probably because it is somewhat uncommon, and it possibly references the creation of man found in Genesis.

I'm too busy for senseless posts like this, and I'm the fool for expecting meaning out of a little piece of fiction.