The Mezzanine

This book SUCKS. I wish I could give it a negative star count. I don't care if youre going to write a boring book posed as experimental fiction, fine, not for everybody. But the way he speaks so respectably about all the men in this book, even the cleaners in the office and the mailroom workers, versus the absolutely misogynistic thoughts he shares about the women (see: "love to watch the secretaries" & the whole 'young manic pixie dream girl cashier has sexual fantasies about me even though shes so obviously prude and young and shy and quiet. shes actually a FREAK sexually who wants me') is disgusting. That's not just the narrator at that point, its the author. I don't care that this was written in the 80s, plenty of people respected women in the 80s. Disgusting, absolutely disgusting.

The Mezzanine is one of the better attempts at novel-length internal monologue I've read. The notion of exploring the intra-thoughts(?) of a character has always intrigued me. Yet, the few attempts I've made at it have ranged from unreadable to uninteresting. The Mezzanine is generally much more readable than others in its subgenre of experimental literature. I'll give it that much. It steers clear of the incohesive, incoherent, and the non sequiturs that muddled other stabs at a realistic literary depiction of the human internal thought process. However, I found The Mezzanine a very uneven read. At its best, it is reminiscent of a well-done stand-up routine where the mundane bits of life we all share - things that have run through our mind at one time or another while browsing the isles of a CVS, like the rise and fall of once mighty shampoo brands, are given a humorous spotlight. At its worst, however, it is an uninteresting ranty-rant and reminds one of a high school composition where its author is padding mightily to hit that 3-page minimum for an assignment. Ultimately, I think that it's difficult for even the most talented of authors, to sustain interest over the length of a novel, even a short one like this book, when tackling internal monologue. Like experimental film, perhaps such an effort is only sustainable in a shorter format. I enjoyed much of The Mezzanine, but also found myself skimming much of it in an effort to get to the more engaging bits. This three-star rating is more like a mathematical average: (1+5)/2, rather than a consistent 3 throughout. Some parts were laugh out loud funny, others a chore to read resulting in just a decent/okay read in the end.

I found this quite boring and not at all enjoyable. There was one part where I chuckled, but I can't remember what it was. Reading this was quite disappointing after all the hype. I was happiest with it when it ended.

You might receive more pleasure from reading an inventory list from your local 7-11. A stunt of a novella that is a sere and self-regarding exercise in marginalia and nothingness: ice cube tray evolution, paper vs. plastic straws, eyelet friction on shoelaces (twice). This is the stuff of big themes and life altering pathos. Pass.

Too often--and with good reason--, the plots of novels and stories are carried by an archetypical hero or a flawed antihero, both of whom are relatable in some form. A smattering of stories have an unnamed narrator who adds a mysterious yet biased element to the narrative; some feature an anonymous and omniscient third-person perspective on the events; and then there are the novels and stories fall outside the bizarre for perspective and plot (i.e., Garth Stein's [[ASIN:0061537969 The Art of Racing in the Rain]] [2009] from the perspective of a dog). Then there are the ruminations of the common man, observations of the every day by the average joe, details of life's ever so minor tasks which morph into a importance. This is Nicholson Baker's The Mezzanine.

By details, I don't mean an endless string of perfectly arranged adjective order to describe every nuance of a broomstick or TV remote. By details, I mean reflections and stories built into the common occurrences that we all put ourselves through on an everyday basis: i.e., the unfortunate history of straw packaging, the addictiveness of bathroom whistling, the crushing expectation of crossing paths with that guy in the office, the curious choice of how to swallow liquid and solids at the dining table. And through the eyes of Howie, the narrative detailer and observant aficionado, these little things are an inane yet fascinating blend of infortune, addictiveness, expectation, and curiosity. Some nuances don't even escape Baker's attention; if a morsel of interest is passed over through the narrative, Baker makes a footnote for the fallen crumb of piqued curiosity, footnotes which sometimes span three pages.

Like the Washington Post Book World column has said, the book is "wonderfully readable, in fact gripping, with surprise bursts of recognition, humor and wonder". Not only is so much of the book filed up with daily events protracted to a devastatingly accurate and insightful presentation, it's also done so in a way which is witty, flavorsome, and relatable. I chortled aloud a few times when I read a habit or observance that I thought was once exclusive to my own life. Further, the same Washington Post column also said that Baker's writing was "witty and hypnotic"; this is definitely true as I devoured this novel during a few hours of time on a trans-Pacific flight. I was snared from page one!

No details are left behind the wake of Baker's narrative speedboat of observation. Everything is acutely observed with a pinpoint precision that is very, very relatable. Nothing is left to obtuse vagueness, except for the intention of penning the narrative of Howie: Why is Howie meticulously detailing his life around a shoelace, an escalator and a bag of popcorn? If you ask yourself this question while reading, you're barking up the wrong tree--there is no impetus for the story, no start line drawn on the story's pavement, no egg to the chicken of insight; it's self-contained universe of wonder.

Penn Jillette recommended this book, and I'm glad he did. The Mezzanine is an ode to the active mind. The book essentially has no plot--the sum total of the action involves buying a new pair of shoelaces during a lunch break--and I suspect many people wouldn't like this book. But for me it was interesting to read what the main character (really just the author, I suspect) thinks about the little details in his life. Many of his thoughts demonstrate a healthy curiosity about the world and the little technological advances made in our advanced society--things like plastic vs. paper straws, the mechanics of escalators and the proper way to fill a napkin dispenser.

Baker also has a wonderful way of writing about seemingly mundane subjects that makes them come alive, such as his description of popcorn popping:

"I felt somewhat like an exploding popcorn myself: a dried bicuspid of American grain dropped into a lucid gold liquid pressed from less fortunate brother kernels, subjected to heat, and suddenly allowed to flourish outward in an instantaneous detonation of weightless reversal; an asteroid of Styrofoam, much larger but seemingly of less mass than before, composed of exfoliations that in bursting beyond their outer carapace were nonetheless guided into paisleys and baobabs and related white Fibonaccia by its disappearing, back-arching browned petals (which later found their way into the space between molars and gums), shapes which seemed quite Brazilian and intemperate for so North American a seed, and which seemed, despite the abrupt assumption of their final state, the convulsive, launching "pop," slowly arrived at, like risen dough or cave mushrooms."

I feel as if the entirety of The Mezzanine is a dare by Baker, as if he's challenging the reader to continue slogging through his excruciating detailed expositions of the mundane. If you make it through to the end, and I did, he's won and you're the butt of his joke. I tricked myself into continuing reading by forcing myself to read a few pages at a time and, eventually, fantasizing that something extraordinary happened when the protagonist reached the top of the escalator (i.e. he quits his job, he decides to marry his girlfriend, he has an epiphany of some sort, he commits suicide, he shoots up his office (things got pretty dark near the end)). Spoiler alert: dude just makes it to the top of the escalator. Fin.

I am not a verified purchaser. I read someone else's copy. I have so much trouble with minutiae. I couldn't enjoy this. I also cannot deal with "viola" instead of "voila". His remarks about milk cartons are incorrect. We have conventional 'old' style glass, which can be delivered, traditional paper cartons, and plastic jugs in our neighborhood. Just my personal take. I couldn't get into it.

Useless babble.

Very clever and funny!