Gone Tomorrow

The bulk of P.F. Kluge's Gone Tomorrow purports to be a manuscript that was found among the belongings of the late George Canaris, whose three previous books had landed him in the canon of must-read 20th century authors. Canaris became a writer in residence at a no-name Ohio college at the height of his fame, eager for a place that would give him the space to write his magnum opus, "The Beast," as he referred to it. But against all expectations Canaris stayed on at the school for more than thirty years and never published another book. His failure to come out with anything new lent him a Salinger-esque mystique, but his status slowly slipped from celebrity author on campus to beloved but has-been professor. The manuscript Canaris left for his literary executor, Mark May, to find in his freezer isn't The Beast. It's an account of his last year at the college (2005), when he was forced out by the administration to make room for new blood. These chapters in the present time alternate with those describing his earlier years at the school, so that it becomes an account of Canaris' life and career across thirty years of teaching. This book within a book, also titled Gone Tomorrow, is preceded by a twenty-odd page introduction supplied by May, who explains the background of the manuscript and offers a precis of Canaris's career. May introduces the idea that Canaris was wont to blur the boundary between fact and fiction in his writing, so that one enters Canaris's narrative ready to question the veracity of the account. The principal question is, was Canaris in fact working on The Beast all those years, as he claims in his book? Or was he perpetrating a kind of fraud for decades and buttressing it with a final manuscript that left readers unsure of the truth? George Canaris, dead already when Kluge's book begins, comes to life in the pages of his memoir. He is an entirely believable character whose death we come after the fact to regret. And the book offers a lovely discussion of the seasons of a life, the ephemerality of experience, the importance of memory. My one complaint is that the book should have ended with the end of Canaris's manuscript, which would have left the mysteries of The Beast and Canaris's veracity intact. Instead, the book closes with an afterword by May that neatly ties up our questions, or most of them, and in the process, I think, diminishes the impact of the book. Better to be left guessing in the end. -- Debra Hamel

When I picked up Gone Tomorrow, I was expecting a sensitive novel about failed ambitions. The cover flap promised a sort of mid-western "Good-bye Mr. Chips," a gentle and poignant reminder of one teacher's legacy. I was not prepared for the scathing wit of Kluge's novel, nor its depth. George Canaris, a novelist of fame and stature, has accepted a job in an isolated mid-western college in order to hunker down and write the Great American Novel - which he calls "The Beast." And Beast it is, covering his family's past, present - as well as the transformation of Sudetenland during WWII and its aftermath, the Cold War, not to mention Life, The Universe and Everything. Canaris' Beast is truly a monster. Somewhat perversely, Canaris refuses to talk about The Beast, or show a word of the manuscript to anyone, until, after 30 years, very few people actually believe he has written it. Eventually, Canaris is canned for lack of productivity, and dies shortly thereafter under mysterious circumstances. The book leaves us with two mysteries - who killed Canaris (if indeed it was murder), and does The Beast, that long-awaited novel of novels actually exist? It is the second question that gave me pause. The Beast clearly represents more than a novel. As a "life-work" it represented an actual life - any life, or perhaps all of our lives. The issues Canaris grapples with - the relevance of the past, the significance of memory, the inevitability of loss - are things we all must consider as we struggle with our own "Beasts." Kluge is a wonderful writer - witty, wise, erudite, intelligent - with much to say about academia, the process of writing, our hopelessly sped-up world. And I'm looking forward to reading his other books. I only hope that the copy editor who repeatedly and almost doggedly mangled this marvelous text has left the world of publishing. A writer of Kluge's talent and vision certainly deserves better.

I'm somewhat impulsive in my reading habits, so if something doesn't grab me quickly --within the first 5 pages or so-- I usually chuck it and move on. Which means I've probably missed out on a lot of slow starting but worthy books over the years. In the case of "Gone Tomorrow", I was initially underwhelmed, but for some reason, kept going. Maybe it's because I've always been tantalized by novels of academe--with their promise of greed, vanity, unseemly competition, backbiting, student-professor relationships, husband-wife conflicts, tenure struggles and all the other segments of this rich vein of literary fiction. In Kluge's case, he eventually pulls it all off remarkably well--an exquisite blend of plot, faux memoirs, atmospherics and depth of character development. Very highly recommended to those interested in this genre. (I was, however, annoyed by two or three typos toward the end of the book which distacted me and actually confused the meaning of the text. Better editing is advised for future editions).

Some authors own the genre of mysteries, thrillers, love stories, or outdoor adventure. But P.F. Kluge owns the give and take intimacy of small college relationships: politics, expectations, taboos and awakening minds. This is a love story, but not the romantic type. It is a love story for a lifetime of nuturing of relationships created in a small liberal arts college. It is an explanation of the fictional life of a writer-in-residence, George Canaris who has turned away from the expectations of others and their definition of success, and instead become intoxicated with awakening young minds to write and express themselves. It is extravagant in captured metaphor and wisdom. The essence of writing: "I hope that what matters to me will matter to others." The sense of loss and loneliness of a retired professor: "..if you have no students in front of you, your life thins out. It's like an abandoned bird's nest, a few twigs and feathers waiting for a strong wind." The pettiness of academic politics: "With him the applause was based on enthusiasm, not reverence, and it kept growing as he approached. There was no counting the number of faculty enemies he'd already made." In the end we see the interweaving intricacy and intimacy of a small college campus, seen close up through a long looking glass. And if one looks back through that glass, at the other end, way far away we can see the author with his beast. P.E. Scranton Jr.

I've been waiting for another book by Kluge to come along for years, when I saw this one in Entertainment Weekly I jumped at the chance to get my hands on a copy early at the bookstore up the street. I wasn't disappointed. Gripping and inspiring to be sure, but hilarious too. Truly just laugh out loud funny. I don't know anyone else who can capture witty banter quite like Kluge- it's as though Aaron Sorkin met reality. I recommend it highly... I just wish there was more- reads really fast. You'll be hooked from the first line: "George Canaris is the first faculty member of this college in half a century whose death merited an obituary in The New York Times. He was our best-known professor, one of those outsized characters who arrives in an obscure place and makes it his own. "A writer, a critic, a professor, a campus legend and a national figure, the very embodiment of the liberal arts," the Times obituary said. And a mystery. He was the author of two well-received novels and a book of essays, all published more than 30 years ago. Taken together, they were the beginnings of an impressive shelf to which, in all his years here in Ohio, he added nothing. "Compared to Faulkner and Dos Passos at the start of his career," The Times observed, "in the end he resembled Harper Lee."