CivilWarLand in Bad Decline

Some people will not like this book. Some people will be turned off by the title, the first sentence, the typeset. And that's okay. William Butler Yeats predicts in his poem, "The Second Coming," that "things fall apart; the center cannot hold" when the apocalypse occurs. As a writer, George Saunders proves that these now post-apocalyptic and dystopic fragments of what life once was are closer than our society likes to imagine. His gluing together of the chaotic remains of America into his stories is both hysterical and chilling. Saunders pays particular attention to the casual nuances of everyday life, yet manages to bring universal flaws of mankind to the table. In Civilwarland in Bad Decline, he explores the defecating depths of human travesty by highlighting society's biggest travesties as well as man's most trivial imperfections. Saunders is obviously fascinated by American society, and portrays its dystopic cousin in such a way that he embellishes our culture's flaws while transporting the reader to a near-future or alternate present. Though not completely cohesive throughout all of the stories in Civilwarland in Bad Decline, Saunders' version of America is grossly distorted. In the novella "Bounty," he fashions a country ripped apart its seams by mutant slavery, overtaken by corporate America, and devoid of any compassion. Yet, amidst this abnormal alternative universe, Saunders incorporates pop culture references such as Dr. Pepper, Playboy, and even a McDonald's, though it has since been occupied by a religious cult. Saunders seems to enjoy writing characters with heavily flawed personalities, but he especially excels at describing their physical defects, allowing the reader to pick up on the satire without the aid of blunt accusations. In the story "Bounty," he creates a mutant race of imperfect people known as the Flaweds. Each Flawed has his or her own special defect, such as "Mollie, a hag whose Flaw is a colossal turkeyneck," or "Buddy who was born with no teeth and Mike who has twice as many as he needs." Saunders expresses the irony man's cyclical discrimination, this time focusing on physical differences, rather than religious, sexual or intellectual differences. This can be attributed to a society obsessed with outer beauty, striving to obtain beauty over brains. Saunders is not the type of writer who wants to detail every shred of nightfall over the course of two pages. In fact, in "The 400-Pound CEO," he does it in two sentences: "Big clouds roll in. Birds light on the Dumpster and feed on substances caked on the lid." His images are often vulgar, jarring and imaginative. Saunders uses the English language like one would use a sports car around a mountain, working with the bumps and sharp turns along the way. Saunders' dystopias are usually tarnished and overtaken completely by corporations and businesses that are meant to sustain themselves, not their employees. After a crazed worker shoots a b

What makes these stories work is the voice. There is a clear authorial voice here, one which remains familiar without becoming grating. Occasionally the stories miss the mark ("The Wavemaker Falters") but mostly they're dead on. Saunders manages to convey a sense of melancholy and decay that's just perfect. If you came to buy this collection after hearing "Offloading for Mrs Schwartz" on This American Life, hesitate no longer. Buy the book.

I initially discovered G. Saunders in the New Yorker via a short story entitled "The End of FIRPO in the World" -- taken from Pastoralia -- and became and instant fan. This is the first book of his short stories I bought, and shortly there after I also purchased Pastoralia, his second collection. Both are wonderfully written, dark and very funny without seeming repetitive or forced. His stories are some of the most original and fresh I've read by a contemporary author in a long while, and I've passed his books on to many friends.

Saunders is an exciting writer, one of the bona fide bright spots in contemporary fiction. I love his take on consumer society; it is the perfect antidote to the Wal-Mart-Land we McLive in. And apparently, given the subject matter of his latest collection, he has the critique-of-consumerism-via-unlikely-theme-park domain all to himself. Like Pynchon and Barthelme, Saunders is not a realist, but rather an absurdist with a biting sense of humor. There is, as one reviwer notes, a certain sameness to these stories, but the same could be said about Melville's novels, Stevens's poems, or Bruckner's symphonies. I can't recommend Saunders more enthusiastically, but those who prefer realism should beware.

If I could communicate, as clearly as possible, the embodiment of a 'glowing review,' I would do it here. These days it seems almost anyone can write a decent sentence. There are so many MFA programs out there now, that it seems like more people write short stories than read them. Yet, to come across a talent as huge as George Saunders (by education an Engineer, by pure gift of God, a writer) is still something to behold. With so many good writers writing good stories made of good sentences, its kind of tough to stand out and write with true excellence and originality. But George Saunders does this. Oh, does he do this. You don't know the meaning of the word pathetic until you step into the heads of some of these characters. Granted, you will get the sneaking feeling that the same protagonist is being transported from place to place and story to story, with few changes, but Saunder's heroes (if we can call them that) are so pathetic, so pitiable, so 'downtrodden,' that you can read of their ridiculous plights repeatedly and still be surprised at how good it makes you feel to do so. The main reason for this is Saunder's killer prose; it's almost an invented dialect of the post-modern mind. The very phrasing makes you feel like you're being tickled. And there's the voyeuristic aspect concomitant with today's TV culture. It's just great fun to watch bad things happen to normal people. And even if the main characters are very similar, the supporting cast is always a riot, complete with beautifully idiotic dialogue and deadpan narration. But perhaps the most remarkable aspect of these ironic, self-mocking tales, is their undercurrent of sympathy and sensitivity. At the end of nearly every story, Saunders manages to change the tone faster than Jeff Gordon can go through the gearbox, and suddenly you find yourself disarmed by the recognition of your own cynicism and what it might prevent you from knowing.