SIGN IN to access Harper’s Magazine
Need to create a login? Want to change your email address or password? Forgot your password?
1. Sign in to Customer Care using your account number or postal address.
2. Select Email/Password Information.
3. Enter your new information and click on Save My Changes.
Subscribers can find additional help here. Not a subscriber? Subscribe today!
It’s always exciting when a novel by a writer of whom one hasn’t heard appears and is said to be terrific. Receiving the news, we readers are granted a few moments of healthy inhalation as we think about the prospect of reading a book said to be revivifyingly good. And let’s say, upon buying and reading the new good thing, we find ourselves agreeing easily with the good news. A triply lucky thing: a good book, a good review, a good read!
The only thing that could be better, of course, would be to encounter, afterward, a review that impugns our happy certainties, demolishes our delight, and argues that our feast of goodness is less digestible than we supposed. I don’t mean this perversely, but truly. “It’s only fair,” a character in Helen DeWitt’s The Last Samurai puts it, “to give the other side a chance.”
Benjamin Kunkel, the novelist and critic, has provided such a better thing in this fortnight’s London Review of Books in a review of Joseph O’Neill’s latest novel Netherland. Kunkel’s critical attentions have been focused if not exclusively, then largely, upon writers however various whose poetry and prose tends to unfold in the first person (Frederick Seidel; Robert Walser; Roberto Bolaño; Samuel Beckett). As such, he is a usefully acute guide to O’Neill’s intelligent first person narrator’s indecisive time in New York City.
Of course, as Kunkel’s own novel, Indecision, is also written in the first person, is also set largely in New York City, and is also devoted to an exploration of a very intelligent man’s period in a netherland of his life, readers are offered the rare pleasure of watching one novelist thoughtfully unthink another thoughtful novelist’s aesthetic program—programs dissimilar enough (Kunkel’s novel is satiric; O’Neill’s romantic) to create critical sparks.
Kunkel’s “Men in White” begins:
“Netherland” is an ambiguous word. It evokes, of course, the Netherlands inhabited by the
Dutch, one of whom, Hans van den Broek, tells this story of a few late years spent in that
New World city founded almost four hundred years ago on Manhattan Island as New
Amsterdam, in what was then the territory of New Netherland. But “netherland” could also
mean any faraway place, as in those “nether regions” of the city where Hans’s teammates
from the Staten Island Cricket Club spend their nights. (Hans spends his nights in Chelsea, a
Manhattan neighbourhood hardly described in this book, notable for a high concentration of
well-built gay men, new condominiums, art galleries, bank branches and large home-furnishing outlets.) “Netherland” also has sinister overtones of Never Never Land, and sounds
like a euphemism for Hades.
—and continues here. I suggest it as your Weekend Read.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Conversation — October 2, 2015, 8:26 am
“By committing to the great emotional extremes demanded by Greek tragedy,” says Bryan Doerries, author of The Theater of War, “the actors are in effect saying to the audience: ‘If you want to match our emotional intensity, that would be fine.’”
Years ago, I lived in Montana, a land of purple sunsets, clear streams, and snowflakes the size of silver dollars drifting through the cold air. There were no speed limits and you could legally drive drunk. My small apartment in Missoula had little privacy. In order to write, I rented an off-season fishing cabin on Rock Creek, a one-room place with a bed and a bureau. I lacked the budget for a desk. My idea was to remove a sliding door from a closet in my apartment and place it over a couple of hastily cobbled-together sawhorses.
Annual premium on a $6,000 life insurance policy for a champion German shepherd:
Astronomers discovered a pulsar called a superbubble, which spins 716 times per second.
Nigerian president Muhammadu Buhari told reporters that his wife “belonged to” his kitchen.
Subscribe to the Weekly Review newsletter. Don’t worry, we won’t sell your email address!
“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”