Review by New York Times Review
IN college, I had a friend named Kurt. A lot of people know someone like Kurt in college - brilliant, obsessive and kind of scary. He stayed up 72 hours reading Goethe. He filled a 50-page notebook with tiny scrawled notes about Henry James. (These weren't class assignments.) He loved absolute principles and what he called "the timeless." He railed against hypocrisy. He liked to stand outside fraternities and shout lines from Byron. When a poem offended him, he ate it - crumple, chew, swallow - and ended up with an intestinal blockage. My friends and I loved Kurt, and we worried about him. "The Other" is a novel about a Kurt who goes off the rails and ends up living as a hermit in a remote forest in Washington State. The author is David Guterson, of "Snow Falling on Cedars" fame. The recluse is John William Barry, sole heir to a banking and timber fortune. John William, as his friends call him, is as old-school Seattle as it gets. His great-great-grandfather was a member of the Denny Party, whose members founded the city in 1851. In the Northwest, this is akin to May-flower lineage. John William is a smart, troubled rich kid who loathes phonies and sellouts, beginning with his own "weaseling, demonic forefathers." He's the kind of guy who drops acid and chants, "No escape from the unhappiness machine." John William tries to escape the machine by taking the hermit's path, holing up in the woods for seven long, cold, lonely years. In "The Other," the hermit's story is told in retrospect by his best friend, Neil Countryman, an English teacher who emerges as the book's most interesting character. They'd make a good buddy movie, Countryman and the hermit. They meet at a high school track meet in 1972. John William runs for Lakeside, Seattle's elite prep school (and Bill Gates's alma mater). Countryman, the son of a carpenter, runs for Roosevelt, a working-class public school. Like many wealthy, virile boys in Seattle, John William tests himself by climbing in the Cascades, where he and Countryman forge a friendship through wilderness-survival adventures. They also smoke a lot of dope around a lot of campfires as John William blathers on about Gnosticism and teases Countryman about his dream of becoming a writer. "'Lackey,' he would say, about half sardonically. 'Fame and money for prostituting your soul. Minister of Information for the master class.'" Trustafarians like John William usually grow out of their Prince Hal phase by their mid-20s, in plenty of time to make partner in Dad's firm by 35. Not John William. He drops out of college, buys a mobile home, parks it by a remote river on the Olympic Peninsula and spends his days reading Gnostic theology. When even that seems too decadent, he carves a cave out of limestone and retreats into the gloom. While John William builds a cave, Neil Countryman builds a life. He gets married, buys a house, has kids. But he never abandons John William. Countryman treks through dense forest to bring his friend food and medicine. He and the hermit conspire to fake John William's disappearance in Mexico, to give him some relief from his worried parents. After a while, Countryman realizes his old friend isn't going to grow out of this Han-Shan-in-the-cave period. "So what, exactly, is the deal with you?" Countryman asks during an exasperated moment. John William's answer: "I don't want to participate." But Countryman keeps pressing. "Idiot," John William finally replies. "You've got your whole life in front of you, maybe 50 or 60 years. And what are you going to do with that? Be a hypocrite, entertain yourself, make money and then die?" Well, yes. "The Other" is a moving portrait of male friendship, the kind that forms on the cusp of adulthood and refuses to die, no matter how maddening the other guy turns out to be. It's also a finely observed rumination on the necessary imperfection of life - on how hypocrisy, compromise and acceptance creep into our lives and turn strident idealists into kind, loving, fully human adults. Wisdom isn't the embrace of everything we rejected at 19. It's the understanding that absolutes are for dictators and fools. "I'm a hypocrite, of course," Countryman says, reflecting on his own life and John William's doomed pursuit of purity. "I live with that, but I live." David Guterson broke out of the box nearly 15 years ago with his wildly successful debut novel. Neither of his subsequent novels, "East of the Mountains" and "Our Lady of the Forest," has matched that first book's sales, but here's the admirable thing: His books keep getting better. There's a deus ex machina at the end of this new one that, a little disappointingly, plants guilt for John William's struggles at the feet of a certain suspect. But the voice of Neil Countryman is that of a good, thoughtful man coming into middle-class, middle-aged fullness, and his recollections of life in Seattle have a wonderful richness and texture. This Seattle isn't just a trendy backdrop peopled with Starbucks-sippers at the Pike Place Market. Guterson's characters live in the city as it really is. They grab fish and chips at Spud on Green Lake, browse for used books at Shorey's, trip on the mushrooms that grow wild in Ravenna Park. Guterson knows Seattle the way Updike knows small-town Pennsylvania, and there are moments in "The Other" that have a "Rabbit at Rest" quality, as tossed-off observations and bits of dialogue capture the essence of a place and a time. In the early years of his friendship with John William, Countryman wanders through the Barry home, a Laurelhurst Tudor, noticing the white-bellied nudes on the bathroom wallpaper - I've been in that house, or at least its neighbor. Decades later, he listens to his son suggesting they eat at a new brewpub that specializes in mussels and frites - I've been there, too. The beauty is that Guterson doesn't stop to explain. He just drops in these pitch-perfect notes and keeps the music going. Bruce Barcott is the author of "The Last Flight of the Scarlet Macaw." He fives in Seattle.
Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [October 27, 2009]
Review by Booklist Review
With essay collections such as Naked (1997) and Me Talk Pretty One Day (2000), Sedaris kicked the door down for the quirky memoir genre and left it open for writers like Augusten Burroughs and Jeannette Walls to mosey on through. Sometimes the originators of a certain trend in literature are surpassed by their own disciples but, this is Sedaris we're talking about. When it comes to fashioning the sardonic wisecrack, the humiliating circumstance, and the absurdist fantasy, there's nobody better. Unfortunately, being in a league of your own often means competing with yourself. This latest collection of 22 essays proves that not only does Sedaris still have it, but he's also getting better. True, the terrain is familiar. The essays Old Faithful and That's Amore again feature Sedaris' overly competent boyfriend, Hugh. And nutty sister Amy can be found leafing through bestial pornography in Town and Country. Present also are Sedaris' favored topics: death, compulsion, unwanted sexual advances, corporal decay, and more death. Nevertheless, Sedaris' best stuff will still after all this time move, surprise, and entertain.--Eberle, Jerry Copyright 2008 Booklist
From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Starred Review. Sedaris, king of the poignantly absurd, triumphs in this sixth essay collection (after 2004's Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim). There is less focus here on the Sedaris clan as a whole, though the various members make memorable and often hilarious appearances. In The Understudy, the Sedaris siblings band together to battle the odious babysitter Mrs. Peacock, while in Town and Country, Sedaris and sister Amy discuss what their father would be most offended to find on his daughter's coffee-table (hint: The Joy of Sex comes in a distant second). Leaving America behind, Sedaris also regales readers with his experiences around the globe, from sitting in a Parisian doctor's office wearing only his underwear in In the Waiting Room to warding off birds in the French countryside with record albums in Aerial. In the collection's longest essay, The Smoking Section, Sedaris recounts his three-month stay in Tokyo, where he successfully quits smoking and unsuccessfully attempts to learn Japanese. Sedaris records in Buddy, Can You Spare a Tie? his more glaring mistakes in life, but he should be satisfied with the knowledge that this latest endeavor is anything but. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved All rights reserved.
(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review
More funny stuff. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review
Older, wiser, smarter and meaner, Sedaris (Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, 2004, etc.) defies the odds once again by delivering an intelligent take on the banalities of an absurd life. The author's faithful fans probably won't be turned off by his copyright-page admission that these pieces, most seen before in the New Yorker, are only "realish." They feel real, whether Sedaris is revealing his troubling obsession with a certain species of spider or describing a lift from a tow-truck driver who kept saying things like, "yes, indeedy, a little oral give-and-take would feel pretty good right about now"--the ring of truth adds to the book's horrified-laughter factor. The author still draws from the well of familial tragicomedy in pieces that dissect his parents' taste in modern art ("Adult Figures Charging Toward a Concrete Toadstool") and their reactions to what he wrote about them in his first book ("fifty pages later, they were boarding up the door and looking for ways to disguise themselves"). Most of the essays, however, chronicle expatriate life in England, France and Japan with his long-suffering and improbably talented boyfriend Hugh. Sedaris positions himself as a hapless Bertie Wooster to Hugh's Jeeves, lazily allowing his partner's mother to clean their apartment ("I just sit in a rocker, raising my feet every now and then so she can pass the vacuum") and marveling at Hugh's interest in, well, doing things. A highpoint is "All the Beauty You Will Ever Need," which starts as a rant about his boyfriend's ludicrous self-sufficiency ("Hugh beats underpants against river rocks or decides that it might be fun to grind his own flour") but twists into a sharp declaration of love that's all the more touching for its lack of sentimentality. Just when Sedaris seems to have disappeared down the rabbit hole of ironic introspection, he delivers a cracking blow of insight that leaves you reeling. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
