Glyph

I received two presents for my birthday a few weeks ago and this was the one I truly wanted. I read the book during Xmas Eve and Xmas while lounging around. This book is another classic by a writer who is fast becoming my favorite living author! The wit, the sarcasm, the vocabulary, the idea itself makes this book one of my favorites. It's not an "easy" read at all. I found myself reaching for the dictionary on a few occasions and I wasn't upset at all. Aren't you supposed to learn something from what you read??? Anyway, if you're fed up with those typical novels full of sex, violence, and 3rd grade language, then this book will surely make you smile! Mr Everett, keep up the good work!Vincent Lopez

Everett is fast becoming one of my favorite authors, though I get the feeling that between this one and his "Erasure" I've read all of his generally accessible stuff.The story is told by a baby that is born a genius and is almost immediately set upon by forces trying to capture him. With incredible wit and tons of intellectual property, so to speak. The baby has a wicked sense of humor.A bit heady, and not for the faint of intellect, but a great pay-off.

I picked this book up because of the pretty cover. I read the dust-jacket blurb, was intrigued by the premise (a baby who won't talk but can read and write! Neat-o!) and started reading. I had no fore-warning about it's "wit, satire, intelligence." After 20 pages I had to put it down-- it was that good, that I had to reflect on how good it was. I was amazed. Yes, I suppose, all that stuff everyone says about post-structuralist posturing and the hemophilia of the literary brotherhood, its all true-- but I haven't enjoyed well-crafted sentences like these since Berger and Leyner.Impossibly, a "structuralist" dialogue is accomplished between Everett's obvious genius with what words can do and with what words are for. A new "parole" and "langue"? Ralph would easily make fun of me for that one.Just read it. You don't need to know nothing about nothing. It's not erudite-- it's fun.

There is nothing better than great satire, especially a great satire of the literary criticism of the 1960s and 1970s - the kind of satire that has you laughing out loud at conversations between Bruneau and Thales (Bruneau: Would you like some water? Thales: Very funny.), God and Barthes, Wittgenstein and Russell, and many others.Glyph, according to its cover, is a novel, but the book is much more than that. There are tidbits of anatomically themed poetry, literary theory, and seemingly random dialogues wrapped around the central text, which are the memoirs of Ralph, age four, reminiscing about his infancy. Ralph is no ordinary child; he is gifted, although no one realizes it, since he will not talk. Then Ralph one day writes a note to his mother. He has a gift for language, which he displays through reading and writing, not speaking. Incidentally, the first book he read was not written by A. A. Milne - it was by Wittgenstein.Ralph has an interesting childhood - his father is a "postructuralist pretender" and his mother is an artist. With the best intentions, they take Ralph to see a psychologist, the evil Dr. Steimmel, and there his adventures begin. He is kidnapped, then kidnapped from the kidnappers. Along the way, Ralph tells the reader what he really thinks of "that Derrida guy" and a whole slew of other has-beens in academic circles, always with Barthes appearing in snippets of conversation, to say, among other things, "I am French, you know."One might assume that the plot plays second fiddle to Ralph's commentaries. On the contrary, the plot is engrossing. I laughed at the satire and cried for Ralph. It was quite an emotional roller coaster, and I reveled in every minute of it. Glyph takes literature to new horizons. I highly recommend it, even if the reader has no experience with literary criticism. Sifting through the jargon for the plot is worth the trouble.

Ralph is no ordinary infant. Inside his one-year-old body is a fully matured, literate mind hell-bent to excoriate academia like a post-modern Voltaire. Glyphically eschewing speech, Ralph wields his pen as if it were a rapier tipped with deadly acerbic wit. One by one, the inflated pretensions of the unrepentant deconstructionists are skewered and burst. This erudite satire by Percival Everett requires some inside knowledge of the intellectual gymnastics performed at Western universities during the past few decades, which may limit its audience. But for those who venture forward, their efforts to discern and dissect ultimately will be rewarded. The thing I will remember most about the book, however, is the moment when the author interjects (almost as an aside) the most startling expose of racial stereotyping I have ever read. I can still feel the shudder of recognition that even I, who profess total inclusion, may harbor the seeds of racism deep within my psyche.