There
are things in this universe whose sole outer layers are a clear demonstration
of their whole essence. In other words, I could happen to look at a book’s cover and quite correctly assume what
the book is about and how it will express said idea. I’m not saying that I
judge books based on their cover. My only interests in life are drinking wine
and judging people. Not books.
Just
for the sake of not plagiarizing, I will concede to the fact that said
statement of my love for wine flowing down my oesophagus and judging the bone
structure and personality of fellow homosapiens is actually from a Tumblr gif.
But my point stands: there are some things that are so blatantly themselves. Do
I fail to make sense? Lets take the memoir, A
Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It’s not the cover that interests me. It’s the
title itself. I read the title and I feel like I know just about a whole lot of
what the book will be like. The meaning of the words is so idealistic bordering
on self-assured and supercilious. But for some reason, there’s a certain
sardonic tone that’s implied. The title itself appealed to me because it spoke
of humour, whether dry or wet with sanguine optimism, I could not tell. But it
called out to me.
I
was right. The acknowledgements themselves (which take up about one sixth of
the entire novel. I kid you not), are a comedy driven confession of just what
underlines the memoir. The author includes a list of all the habitual events
the author offers, such as going unconscious while inebriated, having sex
without condoms, and going unconscious while inebriated while having sex
without condoms. You get the point. He also proceeds to point out the themes
that will be seen throughout the memoir, including but not limited to “The
Unspoken Magic of Parental Disappearance”, “The Painfully, Endlessly
Self-Conscious Book Aspect,” and the like. I loved it immediately.
As
to the actual memoir, the Dave Eggars begins by describing a short and
uneventful conversation with his mother about his long stay in the bathroom. It
went along the lines of:
Mother:
Were you playing with yourself?
Dave:
I was cutting my hair.
Mother:
You were contemplating your navel.
Dave:
Right. Whatever.
The
dialogue is so random, and yet so realistic and simple. It adds to the
believability of the piece all the while keeping it interesting with such
interesting characters.
The
real story begins when Dave talks about his mother lying on the couch every
hour of every single day spitting out green fluid into a rag. He explains his
mother’s cancer in such a way that words can’t describe, except his.
When they opened her up: “ It was
staring out at them, at the doctors, like a thousand writhing worms under a
rock, swarming, shimmering, wet and oily—Good God!—or maybe not like
worms but like a million little podules, each a tiny city of cancer, each with
an unruly, sprawling, environmentally careless citizenry with no zoning laws
whatsoever. When the doctor opened her up, and there was suddenly light thrown
upon the world of cancer-podules, they were annoyed by the disturbance, and
defiant. Turn off. The fucking. Light. They glared at the doctor, each
podule, though a city into itself, having one single eye, one blind evil eye in
the middle, which stared imperiously, as only a blind eye can do, out at the
doctor. Go. The. Fuck. Away.The doctors did what they could, took the
whole stomach out, connected what was left, this part to that, and sewed her
back up, leaving the city as is, the colonists to their manifest destiny, their
fossil fuels, their strip malls and suburban sprawl, and replaced the stomach
with a tube and a portable external IV bag. It's kind of cute, the IV bag. She
used to carry it with her, in a gray backpack—it's futuristic-looking, like a
synthetic ice pack crossed with those liquid food pouches engineered for space
travel. We have a name for it. We call it "the bag." “
The
way he describes cancer in that manner gave me goose bumps in the same way
amazing singer have that same effect. The way her uses “wet” and “oily” shows the
worms in a negative light. The lack of zoning laws creates an incredible
imagery of sprawling chaos of cancerous cells running wild wreaking havoc,
burning and disintegrating. The personification Eggars gives them by giving
them words including “Fuck” add to the antagonistic and overall ruthless essence
of their existence. The manifest destiny analogy could not be more impacting,
in the way that one sees colonists spreading resolutely, with no qualms about
what gets in their way, in their attempt to take advantage of what is rightfully
theirs. Her body. Her life. And the way he manages to surprise the reader by
going into a very detailed description about the IV bag and then dramatically,
dryly, say, “We call it ‘the bad’,” is so unexpected and simple that it’s
almost ironic in a way.
Eggars
has a way with words, there’s no doubt about it. And I can’t wait to find out
what else he has to say.
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