"Art for art's sake," a phrase first credited to French poet Théophile Gautier (1811-1872), and later, adopted as a Bohemian Creed (in the 19th Century, during the Industrial Revolution), affirms, in short, that art is valuable simply as art, that artistic pursuits serve as their own justification, and that art in and of itself demands no moral vindication whatsoever, as it often requires the freedom to be morally subversive. Misused, or perhaps simply misunderstood, it is this skin which the author stretches taut—beyond all elasticity—seemingly, in a vain attempt to conceal the anfractuous and skeletal nature of his novel's central theme, which argues (to little effect) that, "everyone is a poet, even if the person doesn't write."
Now, as if that trite little statement wasn't quite enough to make the most pacifistic poet sputter and reach for his trusty flamethrower, Rodriguez's book begins with a poem "written" by the novel's protagonist, a surly and self-absorbed fellow named Desmond "Desi" Marquiso, that reads:
"From her lips flew arrows I wish I did not Own,
And I felt such Affliction, with tears not Shown,
Compared I did the great loves of past Similar;
For once I felt such Elation in blessed Particular.
And now—thanks to foolish actions—I do Scour
From a Lamp whose contents will undoubtedly Sour.
Her name: quite common to those who've Heard,
‘Such splendor!' I, with a gleam, would often Word.
Strong was our Love and soon we Learned:
‘Together, such mirth!' we often Confirmed.
And so after years of joy and worth things turned to the Red:
‘Our Love remains a question'—a Sunflower once Said.
‘One cannot comprehend your thoughts and drive to be what it Is.'
Such rhapsody was lost in the interminable actions of His.
‘But does the plethora of angelic voices still chant in his mind?'
—Fond memories festoon in this Mind, well Confined.
So please pass from this poor soul you terrible Deed,
And restore Affection to this Milkweed—this I so Plead.
‘Be true and be Gold!' I one day fancy to AWAKE."
As a reader, one can almost forgive an author a bit of anachronistic drivel like this, provided it appears at the beginning of the book, in that nebulous region generally reserved for dedications, songs, poems, and other tidbits writers use to "mythologize" their stories. The poet in me, however, is not so forgiving. The jangling dissonance of Desi's words continue to haunt, to embarrass, long after the page has been turned. And lest some kindlier and gentler reader than myself goes and thinks to himself "it just has to get better with the narrative," well—read on.
Still reeling, a quick turn to Chapter One, and:
"Good judgement was the first thing to go."
A spelling error in the second word of the book's opening line. Okay, it happens. No publisher is perfect, and small publishing houses and vanity presses aren't known for their keen editing skills. Still, the onus for something like this must fall squarely upon the shoulders of everyone involved in the project. The author and the publisher share joint custody of this child—bastard, or no. And it really isn't the misspelling that's at issue here, though in truth, the book is rife with spelling and grammatical errors. There's more at stake here than one reader's offended sensibilities—setting aside for a moment the idea of Poetry as a viable art form limited to a select and gifted few, or even the vagaries of editorial standards among publishers, be they great, or small. It's not even about taking the opposing viewpoint, or playing devil's advocate, or any high-minded ideas about the vaunted Nature of the Art. And while it's true we live in a time of mass-culture egalitarianism and mediocrity that endeavors to appeal to the lowest common denominator, seeks to dilute, water-down, and spoon-feed the masses, assuming them incapable of pondering the deep mysteries of the greatest writers of their age—and really, in many ways attempting thereby to erase the vast gulfs in artistic skill that exist whenever one compares a roomful of given artists—it isn't even about that.
It's about a very basic premise in fiction writing known as suspension of disbelief.
This, I feel, is the novel's greatest failing. From the onset, Rodriguez fails to capture the reader's imagination. We are not swept away by Desi's ideas about poetry, his love for words, which ring patently false at best, and somewhat delusional at worst. Even his professed love for his girlfriend is belied by the casual indifference he shows her. How quickly he dismisses her as a living, breathing woman, reduces her, objectifies her, until she is little more than a cardboard figure he keeps propped up in some shitty little corner of his selfish heart. Any cultural flavor that might have sprung from Desi's friends, or the many people he encounters along the way is lost, watered down, weak and diluted, reduced most of the time, to a didactic and painfully spiritless glob of two-dimensional Playdoh. As readers, we are constantly distracted by these reminders of the author's heavy-handed presence, either by an endless stream of mistakes in grammar and spelling, or by his sloppy narrative and weak, constipated dialogue.
Ed. Note: Check out the discussion area for this book.
M. Andre Vancrown works as an award-winning technical writer based in Chicago, IL. A writer since his late teens, his poems have appeared in a variety of journals in both the U.S. and U.K. He is currently peddling his first book of collected poems in the hope that it will add a dimension to his bibliography beyond the growing and illustrious list of pro bono accomplishments. For more information about the poet and his published works, please visit http://www.geocities.com/mandrevancrown.