Book : Genesis, Jim Crace

ISBN: 0374227306 { amazon | powells }

I find most book reviews troubling. Too many reviewers are simply writing entertainment--and it's too often snarky, not very entertaining entertainment. Too many want to be noticed. Too many don't want to be bothered to think. Too many would rather not be troubled with evaluation and end up summarizing. Maybe that's what we want in a review--snarky, self-interested infomercials masquerading as thought--but I really want no part of it. So I won't be writing any book reviews. Instead I'll write essays in which I feature books. Essays in which a book, be it a novel or book of short stories or cartoons or typographical misfortunes, takes center stage, but in which my purpose is not "to encourage acceptance of this current literary guru," or "to rend this well-respected author limb from frostbitten limb." My purpose may vary, as will the frequency with which I write essays. But when I am done with them, I will post here, on my website, on the Praxis pages (http://praxis.bainbooks.com).

Which brings me to the book Genesis, by Jim Crace. I didn't really choose to write about Genesis. It chose me, I suppose, by its very nature, or by my disappointment in its very nature. I was disappointed in part because of my adoration of Mr. Crace's book Being Dead { amazon | powells }. When I had finished that book I set about to make sure that everyone I knew would also read it, so that we might exchange knowing references to the book, or so that we might all be better able to live in this world. I still foist it on people when they say to me, "I'm bored. What should I read?"

"Being Dead," I say. "Oh, it is very good."

This new book changes none of that feeling. I still say Being Dead is in my top ten books list. My Desert Island Books list. Being Dead was simply like a perfect storm of good writing for me, a novelistic feat like one I would like to perform myself, the ideal combination of form, tone, metaphor, mystery, plot, and love. And it stoked one of my favorite methods of evaluating a book. When I ask myself, "Is this a book you wish you would have written?," if the answer is yes, if my primary gut reaction to the book is one of jealousy, then I trip through the pages like a six year old who's just discovered The Most Amazing Jungle Gym Ever, hoping that it will never end, that my parents won't show up to drag me home.

But Genesis? Oh, with Genesis I've run into nothing but problems. My first problem is with the title. Genesis. The title Genesis seems all too snide once I get inside the book. For you see here's the second trouble I'm having with the book. The conceit, which is that the protagonist, Lix, cannot help but conceive a child with every woman he sleeps with, is little more than tawdry. Oh, I know I'm asking for trouble by using that word. I don't want you to believe that I find anything about Mr. Crace to be tawdry. But the conceit, the idea that this is something upon which a novel can be based, does nothing but turn my stomach. It seems a joke, a kind of wink to people asking about his next novel. "Oh yes. I'm writing a book about a man who conceives a child with every woman he sleeps with. It's called Genesis." It sounds like a book written by a million MFA students in a kazillion MFA programs, and my response at first was, "You've got to be kidding."

But I was willing to give him this. After all, I was willing to live with the conceit of Being Dead, in which the two protagonists are dead and decomposing upon a beach. Perhaps he would pull this one around as well, and make it into something lovely.

But no. Genesis is trying to be to be just as clever as I thought it would be. It begins with Lix's most recent conception, on the night of the conception, and moves immediately backward to his first. Jim Crace is an incredibly talented writer, no question. Line by line the text is remarkable, but when the lines begin to build I begin to lose patience.

If I look closely at my annoyance I recognize that it has almost everything to do with the stillbirth of my child, Grace, on June 1, 2003. It's been over a year since her birth, but her presence in my life is tangible. Before Grace, I might have devoured Genesis. Before Grace, I might have given him the idea of perfect fertility, perfect pregnancy, perfect birth (followed by imperfect life, of course). But today I don't tolerate it, in fiction or non-fiction.

Maybe I'm just angry at the main character, Lix, for being such an insufferable asshole. He is the sort of man I hope evolution will do away with, but somehow manages to flourish. He doesn't apparently recognize the value of procreation, the mystery of life and birth. His obsessions lie elsewhere, with the garbage of vanity and the mistakes of love. He seems frozen in his own self-absorption, and I can't stomach it.

I can't stomach it so much that I'm tired of myself writing about it. In Genesis, instead of being jealous that he'd written a book I wanted to write, I found myself arguing with the author. "You've got that wrong. The world isn't that way. The world of your novel isn't that way. This is a misstep. No, no, and no."

But arguing with a novel is one of those follies I cannot allow myself to luxuriate in for long. So I'll move on to another book. I don't expect every Jim Crace book to be perfect anymore, and this will undoubtedly help me next time I take him on. Perhaps I will apply what I've learned here to other favorites of mine, to keep myself from despair. I like to think I am that smart, and that I'll be able to do just that. I'd like to think that I'm that smart, but I really doubt that I am.

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