Erasure

Erasure was one of those books which made me want to buy a copy for every person I meet on the street and shove it into their hands. It's the kind of compelling litfic which far exceeds the bounds of genre and hits something transcendent. Thelonious AKA Monk AKA Stagg R Leigh is sick and tired of being sick and tired of his failing career as a novelist. Publishers keep asking him, “Why aren't you writing about the black experience? No, not THAT black experience, the other one!” So, outta spite, outta anger, outta depression, he writes My Pafology, the most grim and grotesque depiction of black life he has in him. And he gets the deal. This is all supported by an absolutely wrenching depiction of dementia, family dissolution through longform shared traumas, dreams and reveries, and interview transcripts. I tore through this book in two days. There's a movie coming out with Jeffery Wright as Monk, called American Fiction. I couldn't be more excited to see it. Meanwhile, I now have to read as much Percival Everett as I can.

Really fun, biting satire. Postmodern stuff is an immediate turn-off for me, so I slogged through the postmodern smirks. But whatever. I also kinda enjoyed them?

Briefly: A novel about an African-American writer and professor who writes highly cerebral Italo Calvino-style postmodern stuff that no one reads or enjoys. He then needs some money, due to relatable family drama (a mother being diagnosed with Alzheimer's). So he writes a trash book that fetishizes the ghetto and panders to white audiences. The book is a smash hit. Our hero is crushed.

Tbh I loved it. I watched the movie immediately after finishing the book (hey, it was a sick day), and they did a decent job - I'll leave that review for Letterboxd.

Super excited to read James next.

There is a lot packed into this short work. Not all of it worked for me, but the ninety percent that did, wow. And the rest, it's probably a failing in me: one gift-slash-curse of mediocrity is being able to recognize genius but only myopically, where you know it's there and if you squint you can almost make it out but you know there's much more to it.

Like, Sokal Hoax. Chapter 2 is obviously a riff on pompous postmodernist windbags, with lovely echoes throughout the rest of the book. Or is it? And Heller: I thought I saw hat tips to Catch-22 several times, particularly the absurdist exchange between de Kooning and Rauschenberg. But what am I really seeing? I can tell that's the central focusing point in the book, but I lack the ability to see it in its fullness.

Erasure is much more than satire. I'd say the main theme is loneliness, with Everett tackling it from an impressive number of perspectives. Loss, too, and racism, code switching, integrity (artistic and personal), and our human need to be seen. Plus much, much more.

3.5

4.5 stars. Incredible writing and a razor-sharp torching of all classes and cultures. So good.

The heartbreakingly real travails of an American family shimmer vividly against this backdrop of satire, perception, and social commentary. A remarkable journey.

This is the third time I've read this novel and I loved it even more the third time. Exceptional novel and Everett's best of the ones I've read.

Went in blind without having seen the movie. Enjoyed every page. But that ending. chefskiss

Very good read. Still not sure if I understand all of it.

I assumed Thelonious (Monk) Ellison was an over-the-top satirical portrayal of a tweedy, leather-elbow-patched, white academic who of course enjoys fly fishing and woodworking when he's not teaching literary theory and writing dense papers on semiotics. Someone who mutters “egads” on the basketball court after missing a shot and the obvious polar opposite of the Stagg R. Leigh persona. Turns out author Pervical Everett teaches literary theory when he isn't fly-fishing, woodworking, and ranching besides. What does that say about me and my assumptions?

The book pokes at credulous readers and the publishing industry hype machine fumbling around representation. It recalls the early days of Indigenous writers and authors from Africa selected to shore up misery porn narratives. Predominantly white industry gatekeepers shaping BIPOC narratives, fuelled by good intentions but blind to their own biases.

Ellison is in the middle of a family crisis as his sister is killed by an anti-abortion protester, his brother is newly out which has thrown his marriage on its head, and their mother is clearly deteriorating with Alzheimer's. The bank gained by his literary minstrelsy sure could make things easier but then who is Thelonious Ellison at the end of this? The existential crisis he faces is evident on the page as he drops snippets of dialogues between Wittgenstein, Derrida, and Joyce along with the entire hit making novel My Pafology. It can make for a disjointed story that careens all over the place, glancing lightly on both the satirical, like the literary award panel, and the sombre struggles of his family situation.

Raise your hand if you've heard of Percival Everett.

I imagine a few hands raise. Only a few. By no means is Everett a well-known or widely-read author. Why is this? We'll get to that shortly.

If you're one of the many not yet familiar with Everett, let me introduce you: Percival Everett is the award-winning author of more than thirty books. His first was published in 1983—his most recent 2017. Throughout his career, he's received dozens of honors for his work. What does Everett write about? Whatever he feels like—whatever has captured his attention. He's covered mythology and westerns on several occasions, with stops to explore poetry, baseball, and even philosophy as told by a four year old. The Washington Post labeled him as “one of the most adventurously experimental of modern American novelists.”

So that's Percival Everett. Also, it's important to note for the sake of discussing Erasure that Everett is black.

Now let me introduce you to this phenomenal work of literature. The protagonist, Thelonious Ellison, is a brilliant and acclaimed author who is having trouble selling his most recent novel. There have been complaints from the publishers that Ellison's writing is not “black enough.” Ellison writes about a wide range of topics—one of his favorite subjects is mythology. Frustrated with the remarkable success of a novel titled We's Lives In Da Ghetto, Ellison scribbles an angry response, a parody that is thoroughly embraced by the literary world.

So why is Everett largely unknown? I think Erasure addresses that question. As a reader, I cannot say how much of this novel is truly biographical, but I don't think I'm completely off by drawing a comparison here. As an author of tremendous talent, Everett's frustration after twenty years of relative obscurity surely must parallel that of Thelonious Ellison. If only these authors would write something about what it means to be black, they'd find success.

In this one novel, Everett tackles the duplicity of the publishing industry. Though more authors of color are being published in recent years, there still exists some degree of expectation that these authors “stick to what they know,” even if it's not actually indicative of their experience. Erasure addresses this hypocrisy in a way that is both comical and heartbreaking in equal measures. It is a brilliant exploration of identity, a multi-layered look at what makes a person. Joining Ellison on this journey—a mother suffering from Alzheimer's, a brother discovering his sexuality, and a sister firmly committed to her pro-choice convictions.

Whatever the subject, Everett is an intelligent author with astounding insight and a knack for language. His work may not have achieved the status it deserves, but I believe that day will come. I know that I will be revisiting his work sooner than later.