Apex Hides the Hurt

Colson Whitehead's "Apex Hides the Hurt: A Novel" is a slender, often witty, fictitious look at marketing and the nature of identity as seen primarily from an Afro-American perspective. Stylistically, it is much closer in tone to his first novel, "The Intuitionist" than to his second, "John Henry Days", replete with much of the same crisp, lyrical prose found in his first novel. As such, I regard "Apex Hides the Hurt: A Novel" as a brilliant example of allegorical fiction, in which Whitehead offers a funny, almost hysterical, satirical exploration of marketing. The hero, an Afro-American marketing expert known as a "nomenclature consultant", must find a suitable name for the town of Winthrop, founded by ex-slaves after the end of the Civil War. His encounters with the town's mayor, leading businessman and other citizens are often both hilarious and bizarre, leading our hero on a seemingly fruitless quest in search of the right name as the suitable replacement for Winthrop. No doubt Whitehead's latest will surely please his growing legion of fans.

When I finished this brilliant meditation on naming and essence, I thought about the untold hours that Colson Whitehead (like most of us) must have spent contemplating his own name. Is it a nom de plume? I don't think so, but then what isn't? As Apex Hides the Hurt makes painfully clear, names are temporary things, seldom expressing the essential truth. They hide the hurt, the suppurating wound that will eventually grow into an exotic, diverse company of organisms that requires surgery. Thinking about this wonderful book, images, names, and themes rise not just to the surface but to that apex where the exhilarating overview makes the reader forget disturbing, dislocated, lonely story that has just unfolded. The unnamed nomenclature consultant who narrates the story, a slob to whom names come all too easily, twitches with self-consciousness, casual and defensive cruelty, and a sort of intellectual righteous indignation masked by immersion in popular culture and simple desire for love that he knows he doesn't deserve. He's familiar. He has a great sense of humor, a finger on the cultural zeitgeist, and a voice that makes him as a brother with such illustrious forebears as Mark Twain, Ralph Ellison, Richard Pryor, or Charles Johnson. His bitterness and his honesty are earned; his humor comes from a straightforward glimpse into the dark side of human nature. The book goes down very easily, like a hip-hop commercial or a poem by Paul Beatty. It an amusing advertising novel, a light version of Toni Morrison's Paradise, a riff on The Great Gatsby, a post-modern sonata about syllables, names, and the human condition. It's mainly funny: you read it with mouth cocked between a sneer (at society, at us) and a grin. I'm eager to go back and read his other two novels.

What's in a name? Shakespeare told us that a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. But what if the rose was called something horrible like "rendered pork fat weed?" Would we even go near it? In Colson Whitehead's new novel, APEX HIDES THE HURT, he suggests that names are tied to identity and fate, and to the way we understand and make sense of the world around us. The ironically unnamed narrator of this short novel is a successful nomenclature consultant. That is, he makes a lot of money naming things. From cars to corporations, he teases the essence from the product in order to name it. His highest achievement was naming a new kind of bandage from an old struggling company, Apex. If you recognize the importance of his masterpiece being called "apex," you can see already the way Whitehead plays with language and meaning throughout the novel. In fact, Apex brand bandages are so good that when the narrator repeatedly stubs his toe, turning it into an infected mess, Apex hides the damaged digit well and allows him to ignore the pain for a little while longer. Apex hides the physical hurt and symbolizes the consultant hiding or repressing his own emotional pain. As his toe gets worse and worse, his interest in his work lessens, leading up to a breakdown. But the tale of the toe, the breakdown and the Apex account are just the back story. Now, after a self-imposed seclusion due to his emotional crisis, the narrator is back to work on the biggest account of his career: the naming of a town. Winthrop is having a bit of an identity crisis. The town's most prominent businessman wants it renamed New Prospera to reflect the optimism and prosperity the town is boasting, but Albie Winthrop wants the name to stay the same. Each man gets to vote and the tiebreaker would go to the third councilperson, Regina Goode, but she opts for the town's original name, Freedom, chosen by the freed slaves who founded it. Our narrator can choose one of the above names or, in fact, any name, and the town must keep it for a year. Each of the three woo him in various ways trying to get him to see the wisdom and tradition of the name they support. Each has a strong and compelling case. Readers don't learn of the final decision until the very end of the novel, and the suspense keeps the story moving at a good pace and allows Whitehead time to explore the less tangible things happening in his novel. The comic premise gives Whitehead time and context to think about names and identity, as well as history, progress and, of course, marketing. In renaming Winthrop, the consultant must confront the past, and what he finds is a story that hits home for him --- a story of race and promise, of disappointment, and of barely hidden hurt. Whitehead's novel is quick and witty, a post-modern condensed style that refers to many aspects of American life (consumerism, racism, packaging, history, capitalism, optimism) with both broad strokes and fine detail. Often funny, it is overa

This extremely funny, heady novel is right on target. Its exhilarating wordplay and brilliant satirical insights will stir even the most hebetudinous somnambulate. The novel never drags, as the nameless protagonist, dubbed nomenclature consultant, ricochets between a coterie of stylish ancillary characters who vie for his attention and contractual obligation to name a small, rural town. The protagonist sets off to "package" the town with a moniker befitting its collective past, present, and future sensibilities. And the fun begins. A wealthy software guru and hometown hero entreats him to adopt a sobriquet reflective of the promises of capitalism. An aristocratic eccentric contends that his own family name is the more honorable, just choice. While the mayor, a great-granddaughter of one of the ex-slave town founders, asserts her own family's claim to naming rights. The multicultural stew bubbles, cures, and bubbles over. The deft consultant's greatest triumph so far is the naming of Apex, a revolutionary bandage that comes in enough colors to match any skin color; his momentous defeat, a mysterious breakdown and the loss of a toe. Whitehead writes a thrilling fable that invites us to look under the scabs of language, manufactured desire, and other seemly nuances that all too often hide the hurt at our own peril.

Man, I loved this book. It hit me at just the right time. It's a witty inquiry into identity, alienation, (body) image, race, the stagnation of privilege, the curse of one's gifts and the duty of limping along. A lively story that carries more resonance and meaning the longer I reflect on it and discuss with friends. Any person who has ever made a conscious inquiry into their own identity should try this book. Whitehead deft use of language meets his excellent standard.