The Subject Steve: A Novel

It's sad that the work of a writer as extraordinarily gifted as Sam Lipsyte (and let's be honest: the man is a genius; there is nobody else on earth performing with his level of virtuosity on the page) elicits such responses of transparently bitter envy. We should be rejoicing that he's writing. I wish him a long, productive life. I look forward to the marvels yet to come from his beautifully generous mind and heart.

I've been feeling a little dispair myself, but not with matters literary. The problem I've been having, sigh, is with my old Henckels Birch Cutting Board, which unfortunately doesn't come with a juice channel. Well, after reading the last sentance of this crummy but brightly colored book, I realized that all I had to do was rout a channel into it--right near the little skoonchy part at the spine--and soon I'd be cutting meat, fish, chicken, vegetables, etc.--and collecting the healthful juices that flow therefrom as well. Next time Lipsyte ought to remember that his readers have to eat, too. And doesn't Broadway do a lot of cookbooks? They ought to know better.

The author, with whom I had lunch today, dares to criticize me and my ilk. Well, I've given his mustard yellow tome five big stars--yet apparently I haven't "sand" enough to deposit my moniker in the designated slot. Listen up, Lipsyte: we all suffer our various afflictions. Some of us trust the wine choices of Jay McInerney. Some of us lick the suppurating wound of illiteracy from South Korea. Still others are forced to live in Park Slope. And yet all of us are entitled to the somewhat sketchy anonymity that marks us as brothers under the skin. Anyway, thanks for the free copy--and thanks for inscribing it (the fourth and fifth stars, respectively).

Well, the other reviews here wrote there great synopses, but here's my two cents. David Foster Wallace has this essay about the difficulty today's novelists have competing with mediated reality. Roth wrote this essay first, and Franzen's written it since (and has now written a novel following Wallace's advice) But despite W's literary catholicism, his fictions wallows in exactly the same stuff he abhors. And, of course, that's what makes it great, and it's what most fortysomething novelists spend a lot of time thinking about. I'd guess that Lipsyte's just get that this is stuff you learned in college--mediated reality is just a given. This book is usually descibed as satire, and I guess that's true because it reminds me of Nathanial West--it manages to be scathing and poignant at the same time, and it's very human. It's also very--and I mean, veryfunny. It's like some sin not to be a realist today, but it's also not like the book is particularly difficult or anything (it's moving, but that's another story). I mean, it feels silly to recommend this book--you just want to thrust it into people's hands. On the other hand, this just might be a book that should have "this book is not for you" sticker slapped across the shrink wrap. You're always laughing at stuff that is real, which hurts. Which makes it so cool. Which also hurts. I guess you all know this book is about a dying man whose condition is universal. Which is funny, because explains why something which reminds me of the best ever episode of the Simpsons has been reviewed as if it were an episode of ER. But it's not at all a morbid book. Steve-not-Steve (see? already it's confusing) really just has these poignant, hysterical adventures, told in these amazing sentences which read kind of like what street poetry would sound like if street poems were beautiful. Which is not to put down Franzen or street poetry or anything, but simply to say that if you have a good year you just might like this book. I did.